


That Burns a Building Down

by embroiderama



Series: That Burns a Building Down [1]
Category: White Collar
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Depression, Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, Illnesses, Injury, Multi, Post Judgement Day, Threesome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-14
Updated: 2013-07-14
Packaged: 2017-12-20 05:17:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 31,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/883373
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/embroiderama/pseuds/embroiderama
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Instead of fleeing the country and potentially never seeing Peter and El again, Neal stayed to face Kramer and ended up in DC under Kramer's thumb. He lost his friends, his lovers, his city, and most of his remaining freedom, but that was only the start.</p>
            </blockquote>





	That Burns a Building Down

**Author's Note:**

> This was inspired by a prompt from sinfulslasher several months ago. Many thanks go to everybody in the WCWU chats who has encouraged me and helped me work out plot points and especially to theatregirl7299 who cheered me along big time and to angelita26 for the beta. Also, I'm very grateful that kanarek13 was kind enough to make gorgeous art for this story. The title is from Queen's "Under Pressure," of course.

[](http://ic.pics.livejournal.com/embroiderama/3911218/75689/75689_original.png)  
  
~~~  
  
 **Part One**  
  
  
  
As Neal began to cross the street in front of the Federal building, he caught sight of Peter on the stairs, and for a moment he couldn't help but smile, that quick flash of love and attraction that he couldn't quite contain. But something was wrong, and even from a distance Neal could see that Peter was angry. Neal paused, his whole body alert, and when Peter stared at him with that slow shake of his head Neal went into action. He grabbed onto the side of a passing truck, hopped off onto the sidewalk when he was out of sight, then flagged down a cab.  
  
Sitting in the back seat of the cab, Neal swallowed against the sick pounding of his heart in his throat and closed his eyes, trying to find his center, the calm he needed to take the next steps without making any mistakes. Go to June's. Call Mozzie. Grab his go bag and passport. Get on a plane. He could do those things, he could disappear, he could thwart the plan Kramer had obviously been cooking up for months. He could make his way to a beautiful island where he could live out the rest of his years in relative peace with Mozzie.  
  
Those things were all easy; what was difficult was what inevitably followed afterward. If he left, he'd probably never see Peter and Elizabeth again. The love he'd found with them, the acceptance and sense of belonging that he'd never felt before in his life would be thrown away, discarded like a burned identity. He'd never see them again, and he didn't know if he had it in him to find somebody else, somebody to live with and make love to when so much of his love would be left behind in New York. There was a time when leaving people behind and moving on had been Neal's specialty, a time when he never would have looked back.  
  
He didn't know if he was too old for that now or if Peter and El had broken his ability to let go. Or maybe they had fixed something that had been broken a long, long time ago, and for that healing they got to keep a piece of him forever. It was romantic and ridiculous, and Neal wouldn't have said it out loud, but he didn't want to live without them. With a sudden pang, Neal realized that he _couldn't_.  
  
"Hey, hey," he said to the cab driver, "turn around, take me back to Federal Plaza."  
  
The driver nodded, and Neal sat back in his seat, heart pounding all the heavier now that he'd made his decision. Neal wasn't going to run. He wasn't going to give Phil Kramer that much control over his life. If he had to go to DC, he could still have Peter and Elizabeth in his life from a distance, and the two cities weren't so far apart. And unlike being on the run his sentence would have to eventually end, and he'd be free. _Making this choice is another kind of freedom_ , Neal told himself as he walked into the building with his head held high.  
  
~~~  
  
More quickly than Neal had expected, he became the property of Phil Kramer. No new charges were pressed immediately, but Kramer made it clear that if he wanted he could have Neal back in prison and Peter out of a job by the end of the day. Hughes wasn't around to stop him; nobody who had the juice to stop Kramer cared to do it. Paperwork was signed, and then Kramer graciously allowed Neal to return to his apartment at June's to pack his belongings. Very little in the apartment was truly Neal's, but June insisted that he take an overstuffed garment bag full of suits and a large suitcase full of other clothes. A smaller bag held Neal's toiletries, a few books he wanted to finish reading, and a handful of pictures and mementos.  
  
He carefully ignored the wall safe by his bed; he'd made his decision so the passports and money in there were useless. Mozzie would come back and collect them later, among other things. By the time the worst of rush hour traffic was over, Neal's bags were loaded into the trunk of Kramer's car, and Neal was in the passenger seat. He didn't look back at June's house as they drove away, and he didn't look back at the city as they left. He had to believe he would see it all again, sooner or later. The places were safe to think about--the city, the house, the park. Thinking about the people he was leaving would be disastrous when he was facing a long drive with Phil Kramer. He'd need his wits about him, not a lot of sentiment clogging up his thought processes. That never ended well for Neal.  
  
"Well well well," Kramer said a few minutes after they hit the Jersey Turnpike, "it's just you and me now, Mr. Caffrey. I'm sure you don't think this is a good thing, but I do believe it is."  
  
"I'm sure you do," Neal replied, his voice carefully level.  
  
"You're a very bright and talented young man. You've done a lot of good work for the Bureau in New York, and you can do a lot more in Washington. Furthermore, I believe that in order to reach your true potential you need guidance. Limits. Boundaries."  
  
"I had all of those things with Peter."  
  
Kramer laughed, a hollow, avuncular chuckle that Neal already hated. "You know as well as I do that with Peter those limits and boundaries were always flexible. Sometimes very flexible, and that's not doing anybody any good. Including you."  
  
Neal didn't reply. There was nothing he could say that wouldn't make things worse.  
  
"I don't know anything about your background. In fact, you seem to have come into existence when you were 18 years old, which is interesting in its own way. In any case, I'm quite certain that you lacked the solid parental guidance that a boy needs. I'm going to try to remedy that. You may not appreciate everything I'm going to do, but I will be doing it for you. And for the Bureau."  
  
"That sounds ominous."  
  
Kramer laughed again. "You certainly won't be harmed. You'll simply be missing some of the freedoms you had working for Peter."  
  
"What is my radius going to be?" Neal knew that even if he kept a two-mile radius he would still be missing a lot of what was available within his New York radius. Still, he could manage. He could be creative in his use of space and resources.  
  
"I think we've seen that a set radius gives you too much of an opportunity to do things you shouldn't do. We'll work it out over time, but to start with I'll be setting a very tight radius any time you're not with me."  
  
"How tight are we talking about?"  
  
"At work, you'll need to stay within my division's office area. If you need to go somewhere else, you'll be accompanied by me or an agent I assign to the task."  
  
Neal winced. "Sounds cozy."  
  
"I think you'll find that it is. Now, we have a few more hours of travel ahead of us, and I prefer to listen to audiobooks while I travel. I'm sure you've had a very, hmm, stressful couple of days so I suggest you take the opportunity to get some rest."  
  
"Thanks," Neal said drily. Kramer started his audiobook, some kind of World War II historical non-fiction, and Neal pulled out his phone. He, Peter and El were always circumspect about what they kept on their phones, but he had perfectly innocent pictures of them and he pulled one up, wishing that they'd had a better opportunity to say goodbye. The droning voice of the audiobook paused, and Neal looked up to see Kramer holding one hand out toward him, palm up.  
  
"You can give me your phone."  
  
"I don't get to have a _phone_?"  
  
"Oh, you'll have a phone, but not a smartphone. I'll be filtering and monitoring all of your communications--I know you won't like it, but it's what you need."  
  
"What I need?"  
  
"You need somebody to have that control for you until you learn to do what you know is right. Letting you run free in a two mile radius, do what you want, talk to whomever you want, that almost lost Peter his career, and I'm not going to be in that position. We'll discuss the details later." Kramer unpaused the audiobook, conversation over.  
  
Neal closed his eyes and brought up the mental image of the pictures he'd been looking at. He told himself that Kramer didn't know everything, that he'd get in touch with Mozzie one way or another, figure something out. What Kramer didn't know wouldn't hurt him, and Neal could make a show of playing by the rules for as long as he needed to.  
  
They traveled down I-95, passing through the lights of one city after another, and Neal expected that Kramer would drive him straight into DC to some low-rent motel like the one where Peter had tried to set him up before he met June. Kramer didn't go into the city, instead taking the beltway around to the south. He took an exit to one of the Northern Virginia suburbs and after driving past the strip malls there was a long stretch of road before he turned into a subdivision with big houses that wanted to be a lot more impressive than they were.  
  
"A house, Agent Kramer? I'm touched."  
  
"Very funny, Neal. This is in fact my house. You'll be staying with me."  
  
That sounded bad, and Neal refrained from replying.  
  
"Don't worry, you're not going to be locked up in some kind of dungeon and we won't be roommates either. God forbid! I had a suite built on the ground floor for my daughter when she was going to college. She wanted her own space, you know how they are."  
  
"Sounds convenient."  
  
"Very much so."  
  
Kramer parked in his driveway and popped open the trunk. Carrying and dragging his luggage, Neal followed Kramer into the house. Kramer went out of his way to keep Neal from getting a look at his fingers as he disabled the security system. Neal had the impression of rooms decorated in a spare, masculine style as Kramer led him to a stairway. At the bottom of the staircase there was a short hallway with one door. Kramer opened the door without unlocking it, but a loud DING-DONG pealed through the house as it opened.  
  
Kramer turned on the light, and as Neal followed him inside he was partially relieved. It wasn't a dungeon of any kind; in fact it looked like a cross between a corporate apartment and a rich kid's dorm room. There were clean beige walls with fake wood flooring, Ikea furniture and bland decorations. There was a tiny kitchenette in one corner and doors that Neal assumed led to the bedroom and bathroom.  
  
"I understand that this doesn't measure up to your accommodations in New York, but I assume it will be sufficient. My daughter did complain that it was impossible to get wifi and cell signals down here but you'll have a laptop wired into my network here."  
  
Neal looked around again, taking in the fact that the suite had certainly been decorated differently when a college girl inhabited it. "You've been planning this for a while."  
  
"I think you'll find that I'm not a spontaneous man. Now, on the subject of communications, this is how it will work: everything on your computer here will go through my network, and I will monitor your activity. Closely. I'll issue you a cell phone, and I will check the numbers called. The same goes for the computers and phone in the office. Keep in mind that whatever you do online, I will see it."  
  
"I guess I should avoid the adult websites then."  
  
Kramer raised his eyebrows but didn't respond. "I won't be monitoring you by audio or video and you won't be locked in here unless you give me cause to do so, which I would prefer you didn't. However, as you heard the alarm system does chime whenever the door is opened, and I do value my sleep so it would be best if you avoided opening it at night unless there's an emergency of some kind. In the evening or on the weekend you're welcome to go outside but your radius will be within the boundaries of my property, and I will monitor it more closely than the Marshals seem to manage. Again, I don't recommend that you force me to take that privilege away from you."  
  
Some privilege, Neal thought, but he just nodded. "Understood. Thank you."  
  
"That's the right way to look at it!" Kramer looked pleased and Neal felt sick. "Now, concerning your friends and colleagues in New York, for the time being you'll need to cut off all contact. Your criminal friends will find that if they maintain contact with you they'll be under a level of scrutiny that will make their current lifestyles impossible."  
  
"I don't know what you're talking about, but okay."  
  
"Of course you don't. And as for Agent Burke and his wife--" Kramer fixed his eye on Neal. "As for them, there should be no contact of any kind."  
  
Neal just blinked, suddenly feeling acutely alone.  
  
"You've done more than enough harm to Petey, and I won't allow you to drag Elizabeth into your world. Do not email or call or text them, and I will monitor your mail as well. Do you understand?"  
  
"Yes," Neal said, his throat dry.  
  
"I hope you do. Now, I recommend you get some sleep. We'll be leaving the house tomorrow morning at 7:15, and I don't appreciate delays."  
  
Kramer left then, pulling the door shut behind him. Neal tested the knob without opening the door--it was unlocked though clearly it could be locked from the outside but not the inside and the door was designed to make getting around the lock close to impossible. Neal had a security chain that could be easily cut if Kramer wanted access to the room but Neal went ahead and attached the chain just for the illusion of privacy. He checked out the bedroom, noting the basic but not unattractive furnishings and the bed, which was nothing like 19th century tiger oak but far better than a metal bunk, and did a cursory search for camera holes in the ceiling. He didn't see anything, and he was too tired for a comprehensive bug sweep, but he would do it as soon as he had the time.  
  
Neal hung up his suits and put his shoes on the floor of the small closet in the bedroom then changed and climbed into bed. Kramer was right, it had been a very long couple of days. What felt like only hours ago, Neal had dreamed that he'd be celebrating his commutation with Peter and El--sharing the cake with friends and then celebrating in bed, just the three of them with no anklet between them. He had comforted himself with the knowledge that even without commutation he had a home and a job and people he loved. He should have known that getting comfortable was a bad idea, but he never would have expected that Peter's old mentor would come and literally pluck him away like an object, like a _thing_.  
  
As he lay in the unfamiliar bed in the small, windowless room that was nothing like his airy apartment at June's house, Neal told himself that he could do this. Living in a perfectly decent apartment, working in a position similar to what he'd been doing already, none of it was unreasonable, and it was far better than prison. Neal had chosen not to run because it would mean losing Peter and Elizabeth forever, and that reasoning still stood. He was four hours away on the highway, even closer by plane. Kramer would relax and get tired of keeping Neal under his thumb. Eventually, Kramer would retire. There were many, many worse ways to live than what Neal was faced with, and complaining would only reflect badly on himself and on Peter.  
  
As he lay awake, sleep escaping him, Neal told himself that he would find a way to turn the situation in his favor. He always did.  
  
~~~  
  
In the morning, Neal woke with that odd, dislocated sense of being in a new place. There had been a time when he was so used to moving around that waking up in the same place too many days in a row was discomforting, but now he wished he could be back at his apartment at June's house or waking up from a night spent in Brooklyn. Nonetheless, there was a day to be faced, so he showered and dressed, shooting for sharp but not over-the-top in order to make a good impression on his new co-workers. He found that his tiny kitchenette was stocked with some basics so he had a cup of coffee and a bowl of cereal then went to meet Kramer five minutes ahead of his announced departure time.  
  
"You're on time," Kramer said, nodding at Neal as he walked up the stairs from the ground floor. "Punctuality is vital."  
  
 _Thanks for the life lesson, Polonius,_ Neal thought, but he kept his mouth shut.  
  
In the car, Kramer continued with Neal's "orientation" from the previous evening. "As you know, we have a certain budget for your room and board."  
  
"$700 per month."  
  
"$750 now, after an increase for inflation. Unlike your previous residence, the market value of your current accommodations falls well within that amount. I'll be using some of that to cover the additional utilities as well as paying myself back for the alterations made in anticipation of your arrival. I'll provide some of your food, but I'll issue you a stipend of $75 each week for other groceries and personal needs. If that proves insufficient, we can discuss it. If I find out you're accessing outside funds, I'll be very unhappy."  
  
Neal thought about arguing that he had a legitimate credit card in his name, that he had a checking account and money coming in from his investment in the bakery, but that would only make Kramer start an investigation into the bakery and its purchase and every detail of its financials. That would be a very bad thing, for him and for Mozzie, so Neal left it unsaid. "I understand."  
  
"I'm not trying to be cruel, Neal, but continuing to benefit from your ill-gotten gains is only going to hold you into a life of crime and deceit. You'll find there's a satisfaction in living honestly."  
  
Neal watched the trees pass on the side of the highway and thought that it was going to be a very long day, the first of many.  
  
In the office, Kramer showed Neal to a desk located conveniently inside Kramer's own office. He issued Neal a slim, basic flip-phone and took him to the building security office to get a new ID badge. He introduced Neal to his team members, and while nobody was effusive in their greetings, a few of them were friendly enough that Neal thought he might have potential angles to work there, potential allies.  
  
Unfortunately, Kramer's philosophy on office interaction didn't lend itself to making friends. "I want you to understand, Neal, that I don't approve of chit-chat in the office. I don't care if it's first thing in the morning or if we're working until nine o'clock at night, we're here to do a job. We're not here to talk about our weekend plans and our favorite TV shows."  
  
"Of course, sir."  
  
Kramer sat back in his desk chair and looked at Neal with a raised eyebrow. "I suppose you want to know what your motivation is for following all of my many rules."  
  
Neal hoped that his smile didn't look as false as it felt. "I aim to please."  
  
"I'm sure. Now, as you know, I have more than enough evidence from your little escapade on the Roosevelt Island tram to charge you with public endangerment, obstruction of justice and evading arrest, among other things. You're a convicted felon, and if I go to a judge with those charges you'll be back behind bars, your deal with the FBI nullified, no looking back. I don't want to see you behind bars, I think you're far too intelligent to be wasted that way, but I will send you back if I have to."  
  
"I understand." Neal thought for a moment that it might not be so bad--two years plus a little extra for the new charges, and he'd be able to talk to Peter and Elizabeth and Mozzie and June on the phone, get a visit from time to time. It might be worth going back just to piss off Kramer.  
  
"The other thing you need to understand is that I've been investigating you, Neal, both your past crimes and your activities while working with Peter. Between what I have now and what I will have if I keep working, if I send you back to prison you'll be there for a very long time. Forget the rest of your thirties. Forget your forties. You'll be at least as old as me by the time you get out, and prison doesn't age a man gently. And Peter, he might not end up behind bars but he'll be lucky to get a job doing taxes in an office at the mall. Does that sound acceptable to you."  
  
Neal swallowed against the thick dryness in his throat. "No, sir."  
  
"I thought not."  
  
"And if I follow your rules, I can finish my sentence in two years and go back to my life?"  
  
"We'll see about that when the time comes. For now, I think you should accept that this is your life."  
  
Right then, Neal understood that he wouldn't be free in two years, that before his sentence was up Kramer would prosecute him for one or more of his past crimes and add the years to his sentence. More years, more years. This was what Peter was trying to protect him from, but now Neal had to stay to protect Peter, and he would. He had to believe that at some point Kramer would get tired of housing him and put him in an apartment, that at some point Kramer would retire and move to Arizona and forget that Neal Caffrey had ever been on his radar. At some point, he would be transferred back to New York or, maybe, one day be finished with paying for the things he'd done.  
  
Until then, he could live this way. And even with Kramer monitoring his movements and his communications even more closely than anybody had done while he was in prison, Neal would find a way to reach out. He'd adapt and survive because that was what he did. Kramer handed him a file to look through and that, at least, was familiar. Neal put the future aside for later, and focused his mind on the work at hand.  
  
~~~  
  
As far as Neal could tell, the apartment was clean of cameras and audio bugs. The phone got zero bars, but Neal thought that if he could get a phone from Mozzie with more powerful reception he'd be able to have private conversations as long as he kept quiet. The laptop wasn't going to be useful for communication with Peter and El, not unless Neal thought he could get away with installing a wifi card, getting a wifi dongle that would actually get a signal, and somehow hide all of that from Kramer. It just wasn't realistic. But he needed to talk to them and to stay in contact with Mozzie, and he wasn't willing to let Kramer dictate every minute of his life.  
  
The first step was to reach out to Mozzie. On the IMDB page for Tiles of Fire V, Neal left a comment in code, and after a few days of going back and forth with him in an apparent flame war over the casting of a secondary character, Neal was pleased to see a familiar bald head and glasses lurking amongst the people in line at Kramer's favorite sandwich truck. If Neal had used and understood the code correctly, Mozzie would be passing him a smartphone modified for stronger reception and a reloadable debit card with some cash on it, just in case.  
  
Mozzie made a comment about the soup of the day and passed the phone and card into Neal's pocket, and Neal felt better immediately, just seeing a friendly face and knowing he had a way to connect to the rest of the world and a way to get out of any potential sticky situation. He ordered his sandwich, turned his back on Mozzie and followed Kramer back into the building.  
  
"So," Kramer said when Neal was just about done with the first half of his sandwich, "that was your friend out there?"  
  
The food turned into a rock in Neal's stomach. "Who?"  
  
"Neal, Neal, Neal. Don't play with me. I specified that you should have no contact with your friends on the other side of the law, and I very much meant that. Now, do I need to search you or will you spare us both the indignity?"  
  
Neal didn't respond. The items in his pocket, especially the phone, were a lifeline, and the last thing he wanted to do was give them up.  
  
"We talked about the consequences for not honoring my terms, and I know you don't want those things to happen. I understand that you want to hold on to the past, but this is the time you need to let it go. Right now, hand it over, and we can forget that this happened."  
  
Neal knew that he didn't have any good options. He didn't have time to hide the card and phone anywhere, and he wasn't interested in being searched in front of his new co-workers. With a suppressed sigh, Neal handed both items over to Kramer. Kramer took them and met Neal's eyes, holding him there with his gaze until he nodded and put the phone and card in his desk.  
  
"Thank you, Neal. Now, with that business out of the way we can get back to lunch."  
  
Neal had rarely been less hungry.  
  
It was almost a week later when Agent Franz called Neal over to her desk when he was passing by with a cup of coffee. She had a file in her hand, and Neal thought she probably had something she wanted him to look at so he perched in the chair next to her desk when she nodded in that direction.  
  
"I've heard good things about you from Diana Berrigan," she said, and Neal blinked at the unexpected topic. Agent Kramer ran an office that wasn't an entirely unpleasant place to work, but given how he frowned on personal conversations and how often Neal was within Kramer's line of sight, he barely knew anything about the agents in the department. Kramer insisted on the professionalism of addressing agents by their title, so Neal only knew that Agent Franz's first name was Rachel because he'd made it a point to learn what little he could about the core team. She was close to Peter's age, capable and professional, and she was the one person who had reached out to greet Neal personally when he happened to be out of Kramer's reach.  
  
"Well," he said, "that's good to hear. Diana's an impressive woman."  
  
Agent Franz lifted an eyebrow and quirked a quick smile in Neal's direction. "We trade favors back and forth from time to time, and I agreed to help with this. She sent a letter to my home address, and this was inside." She pushed a small, flat item across the desk to Neal, and he palmed it instinctively. "Anyway, if you could take a look at this file and give me your impressions on the case, I'd appreciate it."  
  
"Of course. Thank you." Neal took the file and left her desk, slipping the item in his hand into his inside jacket pocket in the process.  
  
Later, when it was reasonable for his coffee run to have necessitated a trip to the men's room, Neal went into a stall and looked at what Agent Franz had given him. It was a single piece of office paper folded up smaller than a business card, stapled in the middle and taped all around the edges The outside was blank, and Neal carefully peeled off the tape then pried the staple out with his thumb nail. He unfolded the page and there was Peter's familiar handwriting--and El's. The writing blurred before Neal could read it, and he blinked away the moisture in his eyes. It had been a long couple of weeks, the need for contact with the people he loved burning in his chest some nights, but Neal shook off the emotion and focused on the letter clutched in his hands.  
  
Dear Neal,  
  
If Kramer intercepts this letter I imagine I'll be sunk, but I'm sure you understand that a little bit of risk from time to time makes life more interesting. Rachel Franz has agreed to pass letters back and forth between us, and though I don't intend to abuse her kindness you should know that if you're in a situation where you urgently need to get in touch with me she'll take care of it. I was sorry to hear that Mozzie's little operation failed. Kramer made things a little bit hot for Mozzie so he's running silent right now. I'm sure he'll be back in touch eventually.  
  
Neal, I'm sorry I brought Kramer into our office, sorry I brought this into our lives. I miss you, we all miss you, and life is certainly less interesting. I'm worried about you, and if you need help know that there are people here ready to help you. If you're mistreated, you need to reach out.  Promise me that.  
  
For now, unless I have something to work with, there's not a lot I can do. I'm so angry with you, Neal, that you didn't avoid letting this happen. But at the same time I'm so proud--crazy, I know.  
  
I love you. Don't do anything stupid.  
  
Peter  
  
Sweetheart,  
  
You have no idea how much I want to come down there and walk right into Phil Kramer's office to see you. There's nothing he could do to stop me [a meandering line with an arrow led to this circled phrase with a note from Peter on the other end: _the security guards would stop you, hon_ ] but Peter says that would only make things worse for you. And for him, I suspect, though he doesn't mention that, of course. I miss you so much, Neal. Even Satchmo is sulking--just like his daddy.  
  
You take care of yourself and remember the second cake.  
  
XO  
El  
  
Neal closed his eyes and breathed against the ache in his chest. It wasn't enough, just a letter, and yet it was too much. Peter shouldn't have taken the risk, and Neal knew he should shred it, dispose of the evidence. But he couldn't let go of the one thing linking him to home so he folded it up again, keeping all the folds crisp and neat, and tucked it into his wallet. He'd find somewhere more secure to keep it when he got back to Kramer's house.  
  
Neal flushed the toilet and checked himself in the mirror. He looked the same; somehow, he looked the same.  
  
~~~  
  
"Neal?" Kramer called out as Neal turned at the foyer to head down to his rooms.  
  
Neal was looking forward to being able to relax for a while where he wouldn't be under the weight of Kramer's watchful gaze, but he turned around to look at him. "Yes?"  
  
"I understand you like to cook."  
  
"Sometimes."  
  
"I know you don't have much of a set-up down there, but you're welcome to use the kitchen up here. It's more than I know how to use, by far."  
  
Kramer's assessment of the basement kitchenette was an understatement; Neal had a half-size fridge, a microwave, a toaster oven, and a single plug-in electric burner. It was sufficient to make basic meals, but only just. "You want me to cook for you?"  
  
Kramer laughed, and Neal clenched his jaw at the sound. "It's not a condition of our arrangement, if that's what you're asking. But if I buy the groceries you need, and we both get to eat a better meal, then it seems like a mutually beneficial situation. And you're not a violent man, so I feel relatively certain you're not going to poison me."  
  
Neal restrained himself from rolling his eyes at the vote of confidence, but he had to admit that it would be nice to be able to use the kitchen that had clearly been outfitted by somebody other than Kramer. Neal had spotted a commercial grade oven with a gas range and a shelf holding some high-end small appliances. As far as Neal could tell, Kramer's idea of cooking was heating up one of those frozen meals-in-a-bag in a skillet. Neal could say no, and he could keep cooking like a college student, and he didn't think that Kramer would press the issue. Oh the other hand, he could put aside his distaste for Kramer and enjoy making and eating some decent meals.  
  
"Okay," he said, feeling vaguely sick about the whole thing. "Thank you."  
  
The next Saturday morning, Kramer took Neal to Wegman's, and instead of just shopping for the limited storage and cooking options in the basement he bought fresh food with a few interesting menus in mind. While cooking that evening, he managed to let go of some of the anger and frustration that had been bogging him down, and if the act of cooking in a beautiful kitchen made him think about being with Peter and Elizabeth it also made him feel closer to them.  
  
Kramer wasn't wholly unpleasant as a dining companion, and it was good to sit at a dining table rather than eating from a tray table in front of the TV. Nonetheless, if Neal had ever harbored a sliver of doubt that Mozzie's accusations that Neal had become close with Peter out of something like Stockholm Syndrome, those doubts were eradicated. Neal was stuck with Phil Kramer, living a life built to his specifications, and Kramer wasn't a monster. He could carry on a decent conversation, and he could appreciate a well-cooked piece of fish, but Neal loathed him. Pretending to be friendly with Kramer was in Neal's best interest, but he couldn't imagine ever liking the man.  
  
Peter had pedestrian, whitebread tastes, and sometimes his awkwardness outshone his intelligence and grace, but Neal had liked him from day one and loved him for longer than he wanted to admit. The two men and the two situations were nothing alike. So, Neal cooked for Peter and El and fed the meal to Kramer and himself instead. For the present, at least, he couldn't change the situation, and so he had to live with it. No matter how intently he wished for things to be different.  
  
 **Interlude**  
  
Sometimes, Neal wished that he had known, that last time he made love with Peter and El, that it was going to be the last time. If he had known, he would have asked for everything--to fuck them both, one after the other, to have El's slim fingers inside him followed by Peter's cock, to suck and lick and kiss everywhere. Everything. He would have committed it all to memory, every taste and smell, every stroke and slide, every second of pain and every minute of pleasure. He would have etched it into his mind like a signature or a routing number or a list of names.  
  
But a night in the Burkes' bed couldn't be forged, it couldn't be reproduced with his own hand and a bottle of lotion on a double bed from Ikea in the basement of Phil Kramer's house. The sounds of the city, the sound of his two lovers breathing, couldn't be replaced by the hum of a hot water heater. And yet he did remember that night, well enough to torment himself with the memory, any holes seamlessly patched by his imagination.  
  
 _We miss you,_ the last note from them had said, an echo of that last night with them. "I've missed you," El said as soon as he came through the door. She put her hands on his face and kissed him, and Neal pulled her in close, tasting a hint of spicy sweetness in her mouth.  
  
"You started without me," Neal chided, not caring at all. She'd been out of town for over a week, and then Neal hadn't been able to get to the house in the few days since her return. He hadn't seen her for two weeks, and he wanted her more than the Thai take-out Peter had promised for dinner.  
  
"Just a spring roll. I was starving." She grinned and Neal kissed her again, finding another trace of sauce in the corner of her mouth.  
  
They ate and talked, and they all walked Satchmo together in the cool spring night. By the time they made their way to the bedroom, all three of them were tired, too tired for what Peter liked to call kinky acrobatics. Stripped down to the skin, they climbed into bed together. Neal pushed back the covers and knelt over Peter, kissing him and rubbing their cocks together while El watched them, stroking herself with a tiny vibrator.  
  
When Peter was ready, Neal moved down his body and sucked him off, Peter's taste strong and familiar in his mouth. Languid with afterglow, Peter handed Neal a condom, and Neal moved over to El, who spread her legs and pulled him close. He kissed her breasts, her skin flushed pink from orgasm, then slipped inside her. He was close to the edge, needy and ragged, but he made it last until he felt her start to shake, felt her unsteady stutters of breath against his face. He came hard and sank down on top of her, and he would have fallen asleep there, warm inside her body, were it not for the condom.  
  
He reluctantly pulled out and took care of the rubber, and then Peter tugged him down between them and El pulled up the covers over their sweat-cool skin. They slept together all night and spent Sunday being lazy together, twenty-four hours of domestic bliss.  
  
But that had been in April, a week before the commutation hearing, and now it was June. Neal was alone with his hand and his imagination, and it was hardly even worth it to jerk off when the moments of pleasure only left him feeling more alone. _Bereft,_ he thought, was a word that sounded right. Bereft. Left. Alone.

 

 **Part Two**  
  
  
  
Late spring turned into summer, and Washington, DC was a miserable place--too much glass and white concrete reflecting the sun and heat around in an endless loop. At least in Manhattan there was enough black to absorb some of the heat, even if it baked upwards with the garbage stink of summer in the city. In comparison, DC was clean and open, but Neal would have traded it in a second to be back in New York. He would have traded his commute to work in Kramer's quiet, air conditioned car for a ride in the sweatiest, stinkiest subway car, as long as it would take him to Brooklyn.  
  
What was surprising sometimes was that he didn't actually hate working for Kramer. The work was interesting, and aside from his campaign to mold Neal into a paragon of reform Kramer did keep Neal busy with tough cases. During his career as a criminal, Neal had been able to make money faster with a financial scam or a jewelry theft, but art had been the thing that fascinated him--reproducing it, transporting it, fencing it and in the middle of everything appreciating it. Working on art crimes from the other side of the law was engaging enough that Neal's time at work was the best part of his day, but without Peter, without Diana and Jones and the rest of the team, "engaging" very rarely found its way to "exciting."  
  
It was okay, Neal could deal with it, and he did his best to avoid thinking about how long the current situation was going to last. Thinking about a potentially infinite number of years stuck in DC with Kramer and whoever came after Kramer felt like standing with his feet in the surf, the water pulling at his heels, a tidal wave gathering to crash down over his head. It was too much, it was paralyzing, so Neal focused on life as a day to day task. He could work with Kramer and his team, he could watch TV and sleep in his bland little apartment, he could get up the next day and do it again. He wondered if this was what had happened to his mother--plucked out of the life she had started to build, put down somewhere she didn't want to be in a life she didn't care about.  
  
It wasn't a good thought.  
  
Neal was on his way back from a trip to the restroom when he heard a familiar voice calling his name. It was Clinton Jones, he was sure of it, and Neal froze. If Jones was there, Peter could be there. If Peter was there, Neal didn't know how he'd be able to avoid doing something that could get both of them in a world of trouble with Kramer.  
  
"Caffrey," the voice said again, and finally Neal turned around to see that it was indeed Clinton Jones, looking just as he had the last time Neal saw him back in April. He was alone, and Neal resisted the urge to crane his neck around looking for a glimpse of Peter, his tall frame, his broad shoulders. His face.  
  
"Hi," Neal said weakly, "what are you doing here?" _Is anybody here with you?_  
  
"They needed somebody to represent our division in a meeting, and everybody's pretty busy so I got the honor."  
  
"Lucky you."  
  
"Yeah, I'm lucky. So, how are you doing down here?"  
  
"They're keeping me busy."  
  
Jones nodded, looking like there was a lot more he wanted to say. "You want to meet up for a drink later, catch up on the office gossip?"  
  
It was one of those moments when the limits placed on him by Kramer couldn't be ignored. "I don't think that would work for Agent Kramer."  
  
Jones lifted his eyebrows then looked around. "Well, listen, Peter asked me to find you and make sure you're doing okay. What should I tell him?"  
  
"That I'm doing fine. What about--is Peter okay?"  
  
"He's fine." Clinton tilted his head to the side and back. "He misses you, that's obvious."  
  
Neal felt a pain in his chest and he didn't know if it was sorrow or joy. It was followed by a pang of worry; he'd been away from his desk too long. "I'm sorry, I've got to get back."  
  
Jones looked uncomfortable but he reached out and clapped his hand on Neal's shoulder, a solid weight that was the friendliest touch Neal had had in months. "You take care, Caffrey."  
  
"Thanks." Neal walked away before he gave in, before he was weak enough to lean into Jones' hand, to ask him to give Peter his love. But he couldn't do that and he couldn't let Kramer see him out of sorts so Neal pushed it all down, the love and the longing and the loneliness. He pushed it down and he pushed himself onwards.  
  
~~~  
  
The next letter from Peter arrived only a few days later. Agent Franz passed it into his hand as she gave him a file, and as soon as he got home Neal sat down on his couch and opened it.  
  
Neal,  
  
I understand that you don't want ~~me~~ us to worry about you, but we do. No matter what you say. Jones said you didn't seem like yourself. Frankly, he said that you seemed depressed, and that sure as hell makes me worry because that's not you being okay.  
  
If something's going on there that's not right,  please let me know so that I can help you. Give me something I can take to Bancroft, something I can work with. I'm relying on you to tell the truth here.  
  
There's an empty spot in our lives without you. We're waiting for you and we love you. Remember that.  
  
P  
  
Neal closed his eyes against the tears that burned to come out. He wished that he could explain everything to Peter but the reality was that there was nothing Neal could tell him that would change anything. His living situation wasn't dangerous or dirty, he certainly wasn't being starved or beaten. His work situation wasn't abusive or outside the boundaries of what his position allowed.  
  
There was nothing for Peter to rescue him from; Neal didn't need to be rescued. He wanted to see the people he loved, but that wasn't part of the deal. In any case, he'd walked away from a lot of people, hadn't he? That it wasn't his choice this time shouldn't make a difference.  
  
Neal loosened his tie and laid down on the couch, staring up at the ceiling. He'd dismissed some of Peter's concerns but the beginning of his letter was harder to dismiss. Depressed? He wanted to say no but here, alone, being honest with himself he couldn't quite do it. There were options, of course, but with Kramer Neal had no kind of privacy beyond what he did here in his apartment, and even that was questionable. He was stuck in his situation but he didn't have to be stuck in the way he felt.  
  
An article Neal had read at some point when he was stuck in a waiting room floated up in his mind. Exercise, it had said, could work as well as drugs, and Neal was in no way interested in drugs. And it was true that he got far less exercise than he had back in New York, even though that was the least of his complaints about the move. If he were to have complaints, that is.  
  
Neal went to bed early then woke in the middle of the night, awake but exhausted and loathe to move. What do you want, he thought, and the answer was embarrassing. He wanted somebody to hold him. More than he wanted sex, he wanted the simple comforts of skin against skin, the warmth of his lovers next to him, somebody's arms holding him tight.  
  
In the dark of his bedroom, Neal let himself cry for the loneliness that held him tight instead.  
  
In the morning, Neal interrupted the silence in the car. "Agent Kramer, would it be possible for me to have access to the fitness center in the building at work?"  
  
Kramer didn't answer immediately but he made a questioning noise. "What are you planning to do there?"  
  
"We'll, sir, I thought it would be good to get some exercise. My position here has been more sedentary than I'm used to, and I don't like feeling out of shape."  
  
"Hmmm, very well. I would normally stay later at the office anyway, so you can make a habit of going at the end of the day. Just make sure to check in with me before you go so that I can adjust your radius. We wouldn't want to make that anklet blink red, would we?"  
  
Neal ground his teeth together. "No, sir."  
  
The next morning, Neal packed his small duffel bag with workout clothes and sneakers before he joined Kramer for the commute to work. At the end of the day, the last thing Neal wanted to do was go to the gym and exert himself further, but he pushed himself, hearing Peter's voice in his head.  
  
 _Come on, Neal, if you want to feel alive again you have to get your blood pumping._  
  
In the FBI fitness center, Neal changed and then got on a treadmill. After a short walk to warm up, Neal punched up the speed and started to run. The first several minutes were awful but he conjured up Peter's voice in his head and the others: El cheering him on, Mozzie telling him he couldn't let Kramer win, Diana chiding him but running right beside him. Then he found his rhythm and right there, in a room full of law enforcement agents and whirring machines, he was free.  
  
Nothing changed after that, not really. Neal was still alone, still trapped in a snare made of his past crimes, his present loves and the promises he'd made about his future. But the world was far less gray, and after a while Neal realized how dark things had become while he sank into the morass of his situation with Kramer.  
  
He wrote a letter to Peter and El and told them the truth, more or less, about the way he'd been feeling and the way things had improved if not about the depressing details of his day-to-day life. Three days later, Agent Franz received a delivery of flowers that everybody assumed was from her boyfriend but she met Neal's eye when he walked over to smell the white orchids, which had always been his favorite. She slipped him the tiny card later and the message inside was simple: love you.  
  
Neal stole one stem from the arrangement and hid it inside his sleeve. At his desk, he wrapped it in a bag to contain the scent and tucked it into his gym bag. That night, he slept with the flower on his pillow. He slept better than he had in months.  
  
~~~  
  
Running got Neal through the summer and into the fall. It got him through missing the crisp beauty of New York City in autumn and missing having somebody to warm himself against on the first cool nights. Running didn't make everything better--Neal was still miserably unhappy if he allowed himself to think too much about his situation and how long it might last--but running made it easier to avoid those thoughts. Running gave him one hour most days in which his body was in motion and his mind was still and more time spent strength training at home to keep his muscles in balance and stretching to keep himself limber.  
  
Running gave Neal a reason to take care of himself--to fuel his body, to get good rest, to talk Kramer into taking him somewhere he could buy a new pair of running shoes so that he didn't mess up his feet with his old pair. He didn't exactly make friends in the FBI fitness center but he saw a lot of the same people day to day and in a sense they did know each other well even if they rarely spoke.  
  
Running got Neal through a sad bachelor's Thanksgiving dinner with Kramer, when he couldn't help but think about the impressive feast June had hosted the year before. Some of the guests had been her family but the rest were friends, strays, and with Peter and El visiting his family upstate Neal qualified as a friend and a stray and maybe, in a sense, family. Mozzie had been at that table as well, and Neal could only hope that he was okay wherever he'd gone to drop off of Kramer's radar.  
  
Running gave Neal something to do on the laptop in his apartment other than browsing the New York newspapers and magazines and looking at cat videos. He researched technique and recorded his progress, and it gave him something worthwhile in his life other than work. He was careful to keep proper form, and he did his best not to over-train because an injury was the last thing he wanted.  
  
Early December brought a brief glimpse of winter, a spattering of snow and sleet in the middle of the day. There were marble stairs that didn't look slippery. Neal had worn handsome Italian leather shoes that weren't particularly suited to inclement weather. Neal's oversize feet, his biggest physical liability, tripped him up on the stairs, and before he could get his balance his foot slipped off the edge of the step and he landed hard on one knee with a crack that he felt through his whole body. He stayed sprawled on the stairs for a minute waiting for Kramer and the other agents to catch up with him, and there was no pain but through the shock Neal knew that it was bad. Very, very bad.  
  
In a daze, Neal had hopped to the car with Kramer and Agent Kuroki half carrying him to keep the weight off of his injured leg. At the emergency room, the x-rays showed a patella fracture--a broken kneecap--and the intern assigned to his case seemed put out that the fracture wasn't displaced enough to require surgery. The orthopedic specialist who came by afterward said that Neal should be grateful that he was only going to need a month or so in a knee immobilizer that covered his leg from ankle to thigh.  
  
When would he be able to start running again? _By the summer, probably,_ she said with a smile on her face, like that was good news. Neal's knee was swollen to twice its normal size and hurt despite whatever they'd given him. He felt everything unraveling, and he closed his eyes and laid back on the gurney, trying to remind himself that it wasn't that much time, that he'd recover, that it really was good that he didn't need to have surgery.  
  
Eventually, Neal was discharged with a pair of crutches, a sheaf of paperwork, and a prescription for mild painkillers. Kramer pushed the passenger seat of his car all the way back so that Neal had room to lever his heavy, stiff leg inside. Back at the house, Neal made his slow, unsteady way down to his rooms, and Kramer was nice enough to bring him a large gel ice pack. Exhausted, Neal washed his face, brushed his teeth, took his pills and went to bed. He propped his leg up on pillows and arranged the ice pack over his knee but the position was awkward and his whole leg still hurt.  
  
He pressed his eyes closed tight and imagined Peter and El into existence. In his mind, they made him comfortable, arranging his leg just so, cradling him with their bodies. He felt a soft hand scratching lightly across his belly, strong fingers massaging his scalp, soft jazz and street sounds and peace. The fantasy lulled Neal off to sleep but when he woke in the middle of the night in pain and needing to crutch his way to the bathroom he was all the more alone.  
  
Neal fell on a Wednesday, and Kramer's concession to the week off work recommended in Neal's discharge instruction was to stay home Thursday and Friday. Kramer worked from home while Neal swapped out ice packs and stared at bad TV through a haze of drugs and pain. Kramer brought him sandwiches but the drugs made food seem like a bad idea so Neal sipped on the cans of soda that arrived with the sandwiches and threw most of the rest of it away. Saturday and Sunday were a little bit better, and Neal didn't feel at all ready to face the office on Monday but Kramer wasn't willing to spend any more time working from home and he was even less willing to let Neal stay there by himself.  
  
Neal carefully washed and dressed and pulled the immobilizer tight over top of his suit pants. He made himself eat some cereal and crutched his way up the stairs and out to Kramer's car.  
  
"I'm not expecting you to do any real work today, Neal. Stay at your desk, keep your leg propped up. We need you back on your feet."  
  
"Great," Neal replied. "Thanks." He couldn't help thinking that Peter would've never made him come in to work when he was five days out from breaking his kneecap. Even Hughes wouldn't have wanted him to do that, unless there was some kind of emergency. But DC wasn't New York and Kramer was certainly not Peter. There was no use dwelling on it.  
  
Unfortunately, reclining at his desk and attempting to stay awake made it difficult to do anything other than dwell. Aside from the whole mess with Neal's knee, Christmas was coming up, and Neal had caught a snippet of conversation that sounded like Kramer was planning to go out of town. If Neal was Kramer's pet, then the options were a sitter or a kennel, so to speak. It seemed unlikely that Kramer would trust any of the other agents to keep Neal sufficiently on the straight and narrow, especially considering the bonsai juniper tree that had been waiting on Neal's desk, with a get-well card signed by several of the agents.  
  
It was good to know that, despite Kramer's professionalism policy that kept everybody at a distance, he had made some kind of connection with his DC co-workers, that he was a person to them. Kramer had raised an eyebrow at the gift but didn't say anything. Neal suspected that Mozzie would have been aghast at the inexpert pruning, probably carried out by a flower-shop employee, but it was one of the few beautiful things in Neal's life at the moment and he caught himself staring at it and catching its scent throughout the rest of the week while he was stuck at his desk.  
  
Kramer couldn't take everything away from him. Not quite everything.  
  
~~~  
  
The next week was the real run-up to Christmas, with gridlock traffic near the malls, cookies and other goodies at the office, decorations on people's desk, talk of parties and travel. Kramer didn't decorate his house beyond a wreath on his front door, and Neal waited every day for Kramer to tell him what was going to happen the next week. On Thursday, Kramer turned off his audio book halfway to the office and told Neal his plan for the holiday.  
  
As Neal has suspected, there wasn't going to be any cooking for Neal, no day on his couch watching movies. Kramer had a family commitment out of town, but _obviously_ he couldn't allow Neal to stay in the house by himself, and Kramer was opting for the "kennel" option--Neal was headed to federal lockup for a week. Kramer seemed to feel a little bit guilty about the situation, shockingly, but not enough to change his plans or give Neal more leeway. He took pains to point out that the lockup was intended for non-violent defendants during trial and other short-term situations such as witnesses who were being held in contempt of court.  
  
Neal would have his own cell, access to painkillers from the infirmary if he needed them and time in a common-room with his fellow prisoners. _A kennel_ , Neal wanted to say, _a perfectly humane kennel_ , but he didn't. Kramer was right that Neal could have gone somewhere far worse. He was allowed to pack the book he was reading as well as a sketchbook and oil pastels. They were virtually untouched--Neal hadn't been able to conjure up the creative impulse since he got to DC--but he thought that maybe the boredom would push him out of his rut.  
  
At the office, Neal passed a letter to Agent Franz, the only kind of Christmas card he could send to Peter and El. Peter had heard about his injury, and Neal reassured him that the break was simple, that he was looking forward to getting some extra rest over the holiday. None of it was a lie; he still made a point of never lying to Peter. Neal told them both that he missed seeing their house, always so beautifully decorated for Christmas, and that more than anything he missed seeing them, but that he was okay.  
  
He told himself that it wasn't a lie.  
  
Lock-up was about what Neal had expected, blandly institutional but clean. The cell was considerably nicer than what he'd lived in for four years of prison, and somebody had clearly been made aware of his injury because there was a stack of flimsy pillows on the table attached to the wall opposite the bed. Neal's knee was aching by the time he got through the intake process. He was almost glad when they finally locked the door behind him. His personal items were still being scrutinized, but he was too tired to care. He stretched out on the narrow bed with the pillows under his leg and stared at the ceiling. _Merry Christmas to me._  
  
The population in the lock-up turned out to be sparse, perhaps not surprising given how few trials were in progress the weekend before a major holiday. The men he saw in the common room, all of them wearing the same dull gray scrubs that Neal wore, looked relatively unlikely to try to shank him in a dark corner. On the other hand, since Neal was only going to be there for a week there was no need for him to make friends or build alliances, and he really wasn't in the mood to be outgoing. Unlike the rest of them, Neal wasn't allowed the luxury of phone calls or visits; Kramer had made that very clear.  
  
Neal was surprised when, in the middle of the History Channel "documentary" about alien artifacts that he was absolutely not watching, one of the guards came to tell him that he had somebody waiting for him in the visiting room. He was pretty sure that it wasn't even one of the approved visiting times, and in any case there was nobody who should be visiting him. If Mozzie was here playing Dante Havisham, Esquire, he was putting himself right in Kramer's crosshairs for no good reason. If Peter or Elizabeth were there--Neal had to breathe around the flood of longing and stupid hope--then they might as well say good-bye to Peter's career. It didn't make sense, and Neal's heart raced as he slowly crutched his way down the hall.  
  
The guard quickly patted him down then held open the door to a small room and inside, looking as beautiful and perfectly coiffed as usual, was June.  
  
"June!" Neal smiled but then shook his head. "You shouldn't be here. Kramer could make real trouble for you."  
  
June waved off Neal's concern. "I'd like to see him try. I have very good lawyers and friends in some rather high places. Some low ones, too." She winked and Neal felt a rush of affection for her.  
  
Conscious of the fact that they were being observed, Neal sat down at the small table and gestured for June to do the same. "I just can't believe you're here."  
  
"I would have come sooner, but your Agent Kramer is an obstinate man. Since he's conveniently out of town, I had to get permission from the US Marshals, and they're far less invested in keeping you isolated." June pursed her lips, angry.  
  
"I--I hate that you had to come here." Seeing a woman like June in a cinderblock room seemed deeply wrong.  
  
"Remember, I've been in far worse places than this so I certainly don't mind. Now tell me, how are you doing?"  
  
"With the exception of my leg, I'm okay, really. The work isn't much different from what I was doing with Peter."  
  
June raised one sculpted eyebrow. "Of course. But what about outside of work?"  
  
Neal sighed. He didn't want to lie to June, and she was more skilled than most at seeing through him anyway. "I miss New York. A lot. I miss...everybody. But it's not bad, really. There's nothing I can complain about."  
  
"That's a ringing endorsement if I ever heard one."  
  
Neal shrugged. "My life is boring, but I don't think the Geneva Convention has anything to say about that. Will you tell me what's going on in New York? Let me live vicariously for a little while?"  
  
She just looked steadily at Neal for a moment, then she let the serious topic go and smiled. She told him about a room she was redesigning in the house and about one of her charity events that had taken a scandalous turn. She told him, in a roundabout fashion, about some of Mozzie's recent adventures, including something about the supposed Culper spy ring that sounded only slightly more credible than the History Channel program Neal had been watching.  
  
She promised him that Peter and El were doing well, even if she thought they both seemed a bit melancholy at times. She had taken to inviting them over for dinner now and then, and it was both reassuring and painful to think of the people he cared about spending time together despite his absence.  
  
"They love you very much," she said. "Very much indeed, that's clear. More than I would have expected." Her eyes were sharp, and while she was circumspect enough not to say anything that could get Peter into trouble she had obviously guessed at the truth.  
  
Neal looked down and thought about the last note he'd received from them, conjuring up the words in front of his eyes. "I don't know how much that matters anymore."  
  
"It matters a great deal, I think. I can't say much, but work is being done behind the scenes. It may take time, but nobody is forgetting about you Neal. Be patient," she said gently. "And have faith."  
  
A knock on the door let them know that the time for June's visit was nearly at an end. "I will," Neal said. "Please tell everybody I love them. I can't thank you enough for this."  
  
"You don't need to thank me at all." June gathered herself and stood up, and Neal clambered to his feet as well. Despite the watching guard, June pulled Neal into her arms, and the contact was so welcome that it was almost painful. He wanted to cling to her for hours, but he forced himself to step back, to keep his face steady and his eyes dry.  
  
The guard took Neal back to his cell instead of the common room, and Neal was glad to have the privacy, the space to fall apart just a little bit. He carried the sense of connection that June had given him with him through the rest of his week in lock-up, and he promised himself that he would do what she asked--be patient, have faith. He promised himself that he would try.  
  
~~~  
  
Everything was easier during the day. By the time they got past New Year's Day, Neal was still in the knee immobilizer, but his leg rarely did more than ache dully, and he was accustomed to using the crutches. Theoretically, he wasn't supposed to do any field work, but he went on some fact-finding missions outside of the office and otherwise worked all day without having his mind blurred out by drugs. It wasn't ideal by any stretch of the imagination, but it was okay.  
  
The winter nights were long, but Neal was frustrated to find himself sleeping less and less. For a while, the challenge of getting around with his broken knee was enough to wear him out, put him to sleep. With his knee healing but actual recovery a long way off, Neal couldn't do anything other than lay awake and wish he could still run. A good, long run had a way of leaving him full of a sweet, replete kind of exhaustion, very different from the grinding exhaustion of nights spent trapped in a small basement apartment, awake, bored, on edge from the whining ache in his leg and from a cycle of thoughts and worry that got him nowhere but more wakefulness.  
  
He worried about everybody in New York--not that they needed him to protect them, but he worried that something might happen, that they might need him and that Kramer would still refuse to let Neal go or to even let him know what was going on. He imagined scenarios of Peter injured in the line of duty, Elizabeth sick in the hospital, Mozzie in trouble with dangerous people after a con gone wrong, everybody and everything falling apart. He did some Google searches, thinking that Kramer couldn't blame him for curiosity, and didn't find anything beyond a mention of Burke Premier Events in the context of a society column discussing one of her events. He tried to assume that no news was good news.  
  
Neal attempted to sketch the people he missed so much but the sketches never looked right, the faces always wrong in some way, and even looking at his imperfect renditions only made him miss them more. He read his way through Kramer's collection of alternate history hardbacks. He made it through the night the best way he could.  
  
The good part of not getting enough sleep most days was that it made the weekends pass more quickly, napping when he didn't need to be doing something useful. He knew it wasn't a good thing, that Peter would be concerned if he knew, but Neal didn't see what else there was to do.  
  
 **Interlude**  
  
Neal tried not to think about Peter and Elizabeth too much, tried not to live in the fantasy of his memories because that wasn't the way he'd gotten through the other separations in his life. He had always believed in drawing a line, and leaving things behind, leaving people behind. In the beginning, he had planned to do that with Peter, to use him to get out of prison then run as soon as he could get free of the anklet. He thought it would be fun, to spend some time working with the FBI, learn a few things, then draw that line and go. But then he fell in love with Peter and fell again for El, and suddenly he was tied to them, with or without the anklet.  
  
Alone in his Ikea bed, sometimes Neal couldn't help letting his mind drift. The anklet was just a fetter now, just a reminder that Kramer had him on a leash, but in the near total darkness of his basement bedroom Neal could pretend that it still represented Peter's presence in his life. He could move his leg between the sheets and feel the drag of plastic on skin and fabric; he could touch himself and remember.  
  
Most of the time, Neal preferred to take an active role in bed. He liked to use the tools at his disposal to drive his lovers crazy, to keep them hovering, trembling, just an inch away from coming. He liked to watch their faces, watch them fall apart before he'd let himself come. It was an art form, a dance, a mutually beneficial con, and yet Peter saw through Neal just the way he always did.  
  
"You're holding back on us," he said, no anger in his voice, not even disappointment, just a patient kind of observation.  
  
Neal's first instinct was denial, was _are you trying to tell me that wasn't good for you_ , but there was something in Peter's eyes that kept him honest. "I don't know how to let go. I don't know how to do it any other way."  
  
Peter smiled at him, soft and fond, and pulled Neal in for a kiss, his fingers tugging lightly on the hair at the nape of Neal's neck. "We'll teach you--me and El."  
  
"What do I have to do?"  
  
"Trust us," Peter said, and Neal did.  
  
He wasn't sure, days later, when he was stretched out prone on their bed with his hands tied over his head and his legs spread wide, feet tied to the foot of the bed. El had blindfolded him while he was still standing, and then they had both undressed him, peeling off the layers of clothes. Peter's sure hands guided him over to the bed, and Neal startled at the touch of something in his ear until El said, "Shh, earplugs," and the sounds of the room muted down to almost nothing.  
  
Neal heard an indistinct mumble then felt warm breath on the side of his face and heard Peter's voice, slightly muffled but clear. "You can hear me this close, right?"  
  
Neal nodded. "Yes." His own voice sounded strange, flat and somehow stuck inside his jaw, his ears.  
  
"If you want anything to stop, say 'stop.' If you want us to wait, say 'wait.' This isn't a game, okay? This is for you."  
  
Neal nodded again then focused on relaxing and going with the flow as he felt Peter's hands guiding his feet out to the corners of the bed, lingering to stroke his fingers around the anklet, pushing it aside to rub his thumb over the callous on Neal's ankle bone. He felt El's softer hands positioning his arms over his head, and he tugged at the bindings just enough to know that he could get free if he really wanted to, though it wouldn't be easy. He could leave the bed if he needed to, but all he wanted to do was stay.  
  
Neal could hear the friction of his head moving against the sheets, and a low level of background sound made its way through the earplugs but there was nothing Neal could understand, nothing he could use to anticipate or plan. The slight movement of the firm mattress was the only thing that told Neal where Peter and El might be until they touched him, and then those touches became his world. He felt hands ghosting over his legs, just barely touching his body hair, waking up every nerve ending as they passed. Then there was the soft touch of lips on his chest, the sweet smell of El's shampoo, the shock of teeth glancing across one nipple and then the other, the light touch of a finger tracing the inside of his arm from his wrist to the crook of his elbow and then the same on his other arm, more a tease than a tickle.  
  
His whole body felt alive, hypersensitive, and he wanted to beg for somebody to touch his cock, to please, please touch his cock, but he thought that would break the spell. There was a magic in this soft, near-silent darkness, a magic that gave him everything even though he was doing nothing, a magic of not being sure whose hands were on him or whose mouth, a magic of it all being okay.  
  
When Neal finally felt a gust of breath and the touch of lips between his legs, he was surprised, lost as he'd been in the haze of so many other touches. The delicate tip of a tongue traced the achingly hard length of him, and then finally a hand curled around his shaft, lips around the head of his cock, and the sensation that had been awoken throughout his body moved to the center of his body like iron filings to a magnet. His head spun, and all he could hear was the rasp of his own breath, the thud of his heartbeat. Sparkles formed in the darkness behind his eyelids, and he came as his body shook under the touch of soothing hands.  
  
He lay there in the darkness, panting as his heart slowed down and the sweat on his body started to cool, and for just a moment he was alone. He felt a hand on his face and then the careful touch of finger pulling the plugs from his ears. The ambient hum of the room rushed in along with the sounds of breathing and creak of the mattress, but nobody was talking. There was a light scrape of fingernails as El pulled off the blindfold. Neal kept his eyes closed, letting them adjust to the light that filtered in through his eyelids, and El brushed away moisture, tears that had crept out in the darkness.  
  
The bindings disappeared from Neal's ankles and wrists, and he let his eyes open slowly. He saw El first, her face flushed pink and her hair loose around her face, damp tendrils clinging to her skin, then Peter moved up behind her, looking mellow and satisfied and just a little bit smug.  
  
"That was--" Neal paused, groping for a word in the satiated fog of his head. "Good."  
  
"Thank you," Peter said, and Neal drifted off to sleep feeling Peter and El settle in around him and thinking that he wasn't sure what Peter was thanking him for, but whatever it was he'd gladly do it again.

 

 **Part Three**  
  
  
  
January was a long slog of boring days at work and limping around on crutches through snow and ice that would appear overnight and disappear by lunch, through cutting winds and through days that would suddenly get too warm and leave Neal sweating in his wool suits. He imagined the years he would spend in DC, the years he would have to adjust to the weather, and all he could do was yearn for New York City winters. He didn't think about intersections full of slush and streets that became wind tunnels; he thought about the city made clean by glistening snow. He thought about Satchmo galloping through it like a puppy, and he could hear in his head an echo of Elizabeth's laughter and Peter's fond attempt at scolding.  
  
He tried to tell himself to forget them, that he couldn't get that back no matter what he did, that this was a new year without them. He tried to tell himself that he would adjust, but he couldn't fool himself into believing he could ever adjust. He would survive, they would survive, Peter would keep his job--that was all that mattered. In Neal's current reality, all that mattered was making it through the day of tedious work on boring cases and getting back to his basement room without getting in trouble with Kramer. Neal knew himself, knew his tendency to push at boundaries and start trouble when he was bored and unhappy, and that wasn't a luxury he could allow himself, not when everything still felt like it could fall apart at a word from Kramer.  
  
Every time Kramer called him son, every time Kramer said something condescending about Neal's moral compass, every time Kramer made his little hinted threats to tank the careers of Peter and his team, every time Kramer acted like Neal should be grateful for his situation, Neal had to forcibly contain himself, literally biting his tongue sometimes to keep from saying something he would regret. There were things he had said to Peter along the way, things he regretted, but somehow Peter had always managed to understand where Neal was coming from. Peter had let Neal's harsh words be forgiven, and Neal had done the same for Peter, but he knew that Kramer wasn't a man who understood forgiveness.  
  
The burden of holding his tongue was one more irritation on top of the way his knee ached and the leg brace rubbed at his skin and the forced inactivity chafed at his need for movement. If only he could run, he would be able to think more clearly, but running was about as impossible as flying. When a random but very ichy rash appeared on Neal's chest and stomach, it felt like the world was truly laughing at him. What was more irritation on top of the life he was already living? It barely even made a difference.  
  
Kramer assigned Neal to the task of combing through the electronic evidence taken from a recently-arrested fence, Allison Barofsky, and that at least was vaguely interesting. Her code was simple to decipher, and from that he found a few references to people he'd worked with over the years. There was nothing even tangentially related to Neal or any of his aliases, but it still felt like he had a connection, like he existed in the world in some way other than as a tool in Kramer's belt, and he tried to hang onto that feeling as he continued to sift through her copious communications. When he first noticed the piece of information that would turn into the biggest case he'd worked on with Kramer, Neal thought at first that there was an error in his decryption. It seemed like an almost-random collection of letters, but then he checked it and checked it again as his heart started to race with excitement for the first time in what felt like forever.  
  
 _Scheveningen._  
  
 _View of the Sea at Scheveningen_ was one of two paintings stolen from the Van Gogh Museum in 2002, and neither of them had ever been recovered even though two men had been convicted for the theft. If those paintings were in play, recovering them would be huge. Neal printed out what he had and did his best approximation of hurrying toward Kramer's office. Kramer was on the phone but Neal stepped inside anyway, waving his print-out like a flag.  
  
Kramer scowled at him but hung up the phone. "Yes, Neal? What do you have that couldn't wait until I was finished with my conversation?"  
  
"Scheveningen."  
  
Kramer's face remained blankly annoyed for a second but then he blinked and his eyes went sharp and hard. "Are you confessing?"  
  
"What? No, I wasn't anywhere near Amsterdam in 2002. But look--" Neal handed the print-out to Kramer, who read it quickly.  
  
"Keep working. I'll call a meeting at three, and you need to get us all of the available information."  
  
Neal suppressed a sigh at the implication that he wouldn't automatically do his best, and just nodded instead. "Yes, sir."  
  
Neal went back to his desk and worked through until three, finding as many references as he could to the Van Gogh paintings. From what he could tell, they were making a deal to acquire the paintings and were looking for a buyer, and if the paintings successfully changed hands now it could be decades before they surfaced again. A case like this could make Kramer's career and put him in the best position to retire at the top of his game. Nobody on Kramer's team seemed to have any real animosity for or interest in Neal, as far as he could tell through Kramer's brand of enforced professionalism. If Kramer retired, Neal had to believe that the target would be off of his back, that he'd be able to serve out his sentence and move on, go back to New York. Maybe, if his starring role in the case was compelling enough, Neal could even get a second try at an earlier end to his sentence.  
  
By the time he went into the conference room with Kramer and the other agents, Neal already had a plan in mind, but Kramer was quick to remind him that he wasn't working with Peter any longer. He was there to use his expertise as a consultant, not to plan operations. The FBI would send somebody in undercover, but it wouldn't be Neal. Other than decoding messages, Neal's job would be to coach Agent Hawkins, one of the junior agents on the team, for the undercover role. Given that Hawkins usually liked to pretend that Neal didn't exist, the project didn't sound like a lot of fun. Still, Neal tried to hold on to the hope that this could be something big, something that would change the status quo for him.  
  
On the way home with Kramer, Neal stared out the window at the lights of the passing cars on the highway and ran through possible scenarios in his head.  
  
"Would you stop that?" Kramer's voice startled Neal.  
  
"Stop what?"  
  
"That scratching sound."  
  
Neal looked down to see that he had been idly scratching at his chest, his fingers slipping between the buttons on his shirt. He was usually good at filtering out the annoyance of the rash on his chest, but apparently he'd been too distracted. He dropped his hand to his thigh and straightened his shoulders. "Sorry."  
  
"Are you allergic to something now, Neal?"  
  
"I don't know." Since subject was already raised, Neal decided to forge ahead. "I think it might be a problem with the dry cleaner. There's another dry cleaner just a little more out of the way that's supposed to use gentler and more environmentally friendly chemicals, and it has good reviews on Yelp."  
  
Kramer sighed heavily. "Fine, we can try that. I don't want you distracting the team with your impression of a dog with fleas."  
  
That stung, but at last Neal had got his way. "Thank you, sir," he said, imagining Kramer retired, driving around a golf course somewhere. "I appreciate it."  
  
~~~  
  
In early February, Neal gained his freedom from the long leg brace, and he hoped that it would be a new start. The doctor sent him home with exercises to do, and he promised himself that he'd be diligent about it so that he could get back to running sometime, maybe even by spring. The problem was that it hurt--doing the exercises hurt, not doing them hurt, walking around even with a stretchy brace on for support hurt. Neal bought a family-size bottle of ibuprofen and a big ice pack and spent his evenings on the couch trying to do his exercises. If this was a new start, it wasn't the start of anything good, as far as Neal could tell.  
  
The Van Gogh case didn't seem to be moving very quickly, but Neal knew frustratingly little of what was going on. Other than coaching Agent Hawkins in the basics of going undercover in the art world, Neal was kept out of the important meetings, and Kramer didn't answer questions when Neal bothered to ask. When Kramer called Neal into his office, Neal sat down and tried not to make a show of stretching out his leg. "Yes, sir?"  
  
"We're going to need you to create passable reproductions of both of the Van Gogh paintings. Do you think you can do that?"  
  
Neal grinned, feeling a flash of real happiness that felt as unfamiliar as a warm breeze and sunshine. "You want me to make some forgeries?"  
  
"They'll need to be good, and I know the quality of which you're capable. I don't recommend disappointing me, son."  
  
Neal gritted his teeth, bubble burst. "I'll need materials and a space to work in, somewhere with decent light." The basement apartment would never work, and Neal yearned for his airy apartment at June's all over again.  
  
"Make a list of what you need. There's an office that's currently not in use that should serve your needs, but it's in another building. The time you'll be able to work on the paintings will be limited to when I can spare an agent to accompany you."  
  
Neal thought about arguing that he wasn't going to take off from whatever federal building Kramer put him in, and he thought about arguing that he needed freedom to pursue the artistic process, but he knew it was pointless. Kramer would never trust him, and however much Kramer knew about art, he didn't give a damn about the artistic process. Art to him was a possession, something to be bought or sold, stolen or recovered. He wouldn't ever understand.  
  
Neal nodded and limped back to his desk, where he pulled up the highest resolution images he could find of the original paintings and started to make a list of what he would need--canvases, paints, brushes. And sand. And a small electric fan. He stared at the brushstrokes and lost himself in the waves, in the skies and the trees. The tiny, faceless people--dead and gone, encased in paint forever. He imagined what the original would feel like, the grains of sand blown into _View of the Sea_ and not quite scraped away. He lost time staring at the whorls and peaks of the waves and was jolted out of it only by an uncomfortable gurgle in his stomach.  
  
Neal limped to the break room and dutifully ate his sandwich before going back to studying the paintings and making preliminary sketches. He didn't know how much time Kramer would give him to get the work done, but he knew that he'd better have them ready whenever Kramer decided it was time. He wasn't sure if it was nerves or too many pills making the food sit uncomfortably in his stomach, but whatever the cause, Neal did his best to ignore it and keep his mind on work. At least one thing was maybe going his way.  
  
~~~  
  
Neal stood in the middle of the office that was going to be serving as his studio space and looked around. It was a medium-sized office with big windows that let in a decent amount of light. The windows were bare of coverings, the carpet was covered with drop cloths and the walls bore nail holes and scuff marks from whoever had occupied it previously. A scarred old desk sat in one corner of the room with most of the supplies he'd requested sitting in bags and boxes and two folded up easels leaned against the wall.  
  
It wasn't ideal, but he was certain that neither Kramer nor Agent Green who'd been sent to babysit him wanted to listen to any complaints. Green was new in the department and not one of Neal's biggest fans, and he made it clear that the hours he was going to spend sitting in a hallway while Neal messed around with painting was not going to be time well-spent in advancing his career. Neal couldn't really argue with that, but he didn't have any more choice than Green did so he wasn't interested in apologizing either. He just changed into the white undershirt and paint-splattered khakis he'd brought to work in and started preparing his canvases.  
  
Given the limitations placed on Neal's painting time and the level of authenticity required, creating the reproductions took weeks. In the evenings after work, when Neal was sitting around resting his leg, trying to digest whatever he'd eaten for dinner and waiting for a decent hour to turn off the lights, he spent time researching the paintings and the artist as well. He'd known the basics, but the best way he knew to get the overall feeling and soul of a painting right was to find a window into the mindset of the artist. It was like playing a role, like running a con--on himself, on everybody who would look at the painting later and believe it was the real thing.  
  
Neal had never gone below the surface before when it came to thinking about Van Gogh, and what he'd known had felt distantly sad but ultimately not like anything Neal could imagine experiencing himself. Neal, after all, wasn't exactly the type of man to suffer in obscurity for the sake of his art, and he'd very rarely felt anything like an outcast no matter what kind of society he'd been living in. Even during the bad times, like his first weeks on his own and his first days in prison, Neal had known deep inside himself that he would find a better place, a better way. Even in the middle of the overwhelming pain after Kate's death, Neal had known that the pain would dissipate and that his friends were there for him.  
  
Sitting in his dreary basement room with no hope and no light and no prospect for any kind of love in his future, nothing but a body that was betraying him and endless days of being the guy nobody wanted to talk to, Neal thought that Van Gogh's pain wasn't so alien any longer. He knew, even at his most self-pitying, that his situation wasn't nearly the same, but he could taste that bitter pain, and the flavor stuck in his mouth. Neal imagined explaining this in a letter to Peter and Elizabeth, but he knew that he never, never would.  
  
~~~  
  
Agent Green's plan for minimizing the impact of his time spent supervising Neal was to use most of the time as his lunch break, and Kramer liked the idea so much that he told Neal to work his lunch into that time as well. On the way from one building to the other, Green would stop to pick up food, usually fast food burgers, and he'd eat his lunch in the hallway while Neal worked. Neal would eat his on the drive back to the FBI building. Neal had never been a fan of that kind of food, and with the way his digestive system had been temperamental lately he was really not interested in cold, greasy burgers. When he tried to talk Green into stopping for something better, Green had just sneered at Neal where he stood in his painting clothes.  
  
"You could use some more burgers, Caffrey." Green shook his head, looking offended by Neal's suggestion.  
  
Neal kept his arms loose at his sides, though he wanted to fold them across his chest, and he refrained from suggesting that Green, who had the build of a man who might have been a wrestler twenty years back in high school or college, should consider eating something other than burgers. It wasn't his business, and he didn't want to stoop to Green's level. He just took his food and dutifully ate it on the ride back to the office every day, and then he spent every afternoon trying to keep said burgers down.  
  
Sometimes he succeeded. Sometimes he didn't. Sometimes he did and wished he hadn't. Either way, his suits got looser, the days grew longer, and Neal struggled to remind himself that this time with Agent Green, at least, would eventually come to an end.  
  
~~~  
  
Neal was staring out the window at the blur of trees on the side of the highway when Kramer startled him.  
  
"Is there something wrong with you, son?"  
  
Neal resisted the urge to snort with inappropriate laughter. There were so many things wrong that Neal didn't know where to start, but he couldn't imagine that Kramer would care about any of it, much less the things that were within his power to fix. And even if Kramer were to try, Neal didn't see the point. Switching dry cleaners had calmed down his skin's inexplicable reactions, only for them to come back worse than before, endlessly irritating in a way Neal had grown almost used to. "I'm fine."  
  
Kramer harrumphed. "Jamison told me he heard you vomiting in the men's room."  
  
"Something I ate for lunch didn't sit right." The fact that Neal felt lucky anymore to get away with no more than nausea and a vague pain in his stomach most days was something he wasn't willing to discuss with Kramer.  
  
"Hmmm," was Kramer's only response, and he was silent for the rest of the drive back to his house.  
  
The next day during the drive home, Kramer brought up the subject again. "I've made an appointment for you to get a physical."  
  
"I don't need that. Thanks," Neal snapped.  
  
"Hmm, well, you belong to me, so I think it behooves me to make sure you're in good condition. Yes? In any case, they didn't have any available appointments until six weeks from now. With any luck, we'll have the current case wrapped by then."  
  
Neal opened his mouth to argue, but instead just shook his head and went back to looking out the window.  
  
~~~  
  
Neal was working at his desk, concentrating on some documents Kramer had given him to verify, when he heard a rap on his desk and looked up to see Kramer standing there with his coat on.  
  
"Do you need something, Agent Kramer?"  
  
"I need you to come along. Those paintings aren't going to finish themselves, after all."  
  
"Oh, I thought I wouldn't be working on them today since Agent Green is out."  
  
"No. It's time I check on your progress myself so I'll be accompanying you."  
  
"Great." Neal stood, collected his coat and hat and followed Kramer to the elevators.  
  
The upside to being babysat by Kramer instead of Green was that there was no McDonald's, no stink of grease in the car to turn Neal's stomach. The downside was that Kramer walked into the studio space like he owned it and set about examining Neal's work. He shooed Neal off to go get changed, and when Neal came back a few minutes later he found Kramer leaning over _View of the Sea_ with a magnifying glass in hand.  
  
"What do you think?" Neal asked, unable to stand the silence.  
  
"I think there's certainly some work to be done, but they're coming along."  
  
Neal knew there was still work to be done; he was still layering the oils in places. Still, he had thought that the overall effect of the copies was good, nearly perfect, and the edge of criticism in Kramer's voice unsettled him. Kramer was an ass, but he was one of the most respected investigators of art crimes in the law enforcement world. He knew what he was talking about. "I'll make sure they're perfect."  
  
"See that you do. Our operation, maybe even an agent's safety, depends on the quality of your work. Keep in mind the ways I can make life more difficult for you and for certain other people if you disappoint me."  
  
"I always do," Neal said, hating himself for the sour taste of fear in the back of his throat.  
  
"Well, get to work then. I'll keep out of your way." Kramer moved away from the canvases, but unlike Agent Green he didn't leave the room. He didn't speak for the rest of the hour, but he hovered just out of Neal's peripheral vision. The room felt crowded, the air thick, and if Neal got any good work done that day it was down to technique and muscle memory, not mood or inspiration.  
  
Kramer took Neal to the studio office one day the next week as well, even though Agent Green was at work as usual. Afterward, when Neal had changed back into his suit, Kramer clapped him on the shoulder. "I'm going to take you out to lunch today, Neal," he said magnanimously, as if that was something that should make Neal happy.  
  
"Thank you, but that's not necessary." Neal was looking forward to a solitary lunch break, half an hour alone to drink some tea and get his nerves in line after an hour of performing for Kramer.  
  
"I think it is, son. I notice your suits are fitting a bit too loose these days, and I know you're a man of refined tastes so I suspect a fine meal will cheer you up. We'll go to the new French restaurant in Georgetown."  
  
"That sounds great," Neal said, tensing his jaw to keep in the words that wanted to spill out.  
  
The meal felt like just another performance, ordering the right things and eating them with as much apparent enjoyment as he could muster. As self-satisfied as Kramer was with his "generosity" at treating Neal to fine dining, Neal suspected his mood would turn quickly if he thought Neal wasn't appropriately grateful. The rich buttery food just sank like oily lumps in Neal's stomach, and while Kramer was paying the check Neal slipped off to the men's room and threw up his lunch in one burning wave. He cleaned himself up with a damp paper towel and put on a smile that looked brittle and false.  
  
In the car on the way back to the office, Kramer seemed replete and satisfied. "We'll have to do that again another day, don't you think?"  
  
"If you want to." Neal resisted the urge to rub at his stomach or his throat, both of them sore from their rejection of lunch.  
  
Kramer was quiet for a moment, but when he spoke again his voice was deceptively light. "Just remember, Neal, this is your life now. If you can find a way to enjoy it, that would be best for all of us."  
  
Neal gritted his teeth and closed his eyes. In the darkness, at least, he didn't have to see Kramer's smiling face.  
  
~~~  
  
Neal was putting the finishing touches on the reproductions, aging them in ovens belonging to the FBI's laboratory services department. Neal had no idea what was usually heated in them, but they worked well to dry the paintings and add the appropriate appearance of age. Kramer had looked them over before they went to the laboratory, examining the brushstrokes with his magnifying glass and touching the surface of _View of the Sea_ to feel the texture of the grains of sand Neal had blown into the wet paint to mimic the effect of painting in the open air by the sea.  
  
He had pronounced them sufficient, with one eyebrow raised as if questioning whether Neal could have done better. And Neal just didn't know. He had thought that the reproductions were among his best work, but he didn't know if he could trust his own judgment anymore. He tried not to imagine how making the same kind of forgeries might have gone back in New York--painting on his own schedule in his airy apartment, Mozzie toasting his good work with glasses of wine, June whistling in appreciation, El kissing him on the cheek and telling him they were exquisite. And Peter--Peter wouldn't have said much but Neal would've been able to see the pride in his face, the genuine satisfaction of having somebody on his team, somebody he loved, do such good work.  
  
Peter's approval would have left Neal feeling like a hero, and the three of them would have celebrated in Neal's bed, his paint-splattered clothes pulled off, making love with the paintings watching over them. Now, Neal had none of that. Two intricately detailed reproductions were complete after weeks of work, and Neal felt empty, cold. He would pull off his own painting clothes in the handicapped stall in the men's room and try not to look at the ugly patches of irritated skin that persisted no matter what Neal did or didn't do. He tried to hang on to the admiring comments one of the lab techs had given him when she saw the paintings, but in the face of everything that was gone they were nearly meaningless.  
  
Ultimately, he was alone.  
  
Back at his desk in Kramer's office, Neal couldn't focus around the frustrated anger that kept pushing up through his chest. It was clear from conversations Neal overheard that the Van Gogh case was moving forward, but Neal wasn't given access to the details. Peter--even Hughes or Bancroft--would have put Neal in the middle of the investigation because they trusted him to work on behalf of the White Collar unit and they knew that his experience and his skills could help the operation to run smoothly and be more successful.  
  
Kramer wanted to use Neal like a tool, but he didn't trust Neal, and so nobody in DC above or below him trusted Neal either. Agent Franz was kind to him, passing Peter's letters on to him and generally acting like a normal person around him when Kramer wasn't there, but Neal didn't know if even she trusted him. Why would she?  
  
Neal heard Kramer's side of another cryptic conversation, and suddenly he just couldn't deal with it anymore. "Why did you do this?" He heard the sharpness in his voice, but he just didn't care.  
  
Kramer looked up, a deliberately obtuse look on his face. "Excuse me?"  
  
"Why did you bring me here when you won't even let me do the work I can do well?"  
  
"I believe you're doing just fine," Kramer said, his voice cold and deliberately calm. "For the most part, that is."  
  
"You treat me like a child outside of the office, and then half the time I'm here doing busywork that any intern could do. You have a case that's--" Neal shook his head, frustrated and stood up. "This case could make your career, and you know it. I could make the whole thing work better, and you know that, too. Are you afraid that somebody might give me some of the credit, steal a bit of your glory?"  
  
"Watch yourself," Kramer growled.  
  
"What happened to the man who mentored Peter into being the agent he is? Peter puts the best people for the job on any case, much less an important case like this. He's not scrambling to make himself look good. He doesn't need to."  
  
"I don't want to hear about Peter Burke!" Kramer shouted, then he wiped a hand over his mouth and took a deep breath. He stood and walked over to stand inches away from Neal. When he spoke again, his voice was tightly controlled and utterly cold. "You ought to remember what's on the line here. You think so highly of my protege? Then keep. Yourself. In line. Or you'll be the man who ruined his career."  
  
Anger and adrenaline were still pumping through Neal's body, making him feel boiling hot to Kramer's cold fury, and he wanted to scream that he didn't care, he didn't care, he just wanted _out_. But the shock of realizing that part of him truly meant that was enough to keep the words inside. His head was pounding, his stomach churning, and Neal took a step back from Kramer. "I'm sorry. I--I'm not feeling well."  
  
"Yes, I see. You're not yourself, are you?" Kramer went back to his desk and sat down, looking at his computer screen as if Neal had simply interrupted him with a question. "We'll pretend this didn't happen, yes?" He glanced up at Neal, his eyes cold steel.  
  
"Yes. Excuse me." Neal walked to the men's room and sat in a stall with his hands over his face, trying to find his calm center, but there was no calmness to be found, just anger and fear and a whirling void. He breathed in the darkness and thought about Kramer's words. _You're not yourself, are you?_ Neal had to agree, he could barely recognize himself some days, could scarcely see Neal Caffrey in the life he was living. But if he wasn't himself, who was he?  
  
Neal really didn't know.  
  
~~~  
  
"Hey, Caffrey," Agent Franz said quietly as Neal walked by her desk. A tightly folded square of paper sat at the edge of the desk, and Neal nodded at her then smoothly pocketed it as he walked by. He transferred the letter to the inside pocket of his jacket but decided to delay opening it until the evening. All day it felt like a coal in his pocket, gently glowing sometimes when he thought of it as a connection to Peter and El and the love he'd had with them, searing at other times when he thought about how long it had been since he'd written to them. Peter and El had every right to be furious with him, but Neal didn't know what to say to them.  
  
He couldn't tell them about his problems; they couldn't do anything. Or, worse, Peter possibly _could_ do something but that could be the end of his career. Neal refused to be responsible for that. Still, from their perspective he thought he must have seemed uninterested, dismissive, and for all he knew the letter contained the end of their relationship. Maybe that would even be the best thing.  
  
When he got back to his rooms, after picking at dinner in Kramer's dining room, Neal delayed further by getting ready for bed then finally opened the letter.  
  
Sweetheart,  
  
We haven't heard from you in so long! Peter tells me not to be worried, but he's not a good liar (sorry, hon, it's true) and I hate to think of you being all alone down there with nobody to talk to. We talk about you every day and miss you always. Peter's not going to let this be forever. He's just not. I hope that you're taking care of yourself and that you're just busy with work.  
  
Please remember that we love you and please write back, even just to tell me how boring everything is.  
  
El  
  
Neal,  
  
I have to admit my wife is correct on all counts, though I hope she isn't putting too much faith in my ability to fix this. I'm making progress but it's not so easy to get to the top of anybody's priority list so it's slower than I'd like. Just take care of yourself and be patient--if you can manage it. I heard about the case Phil's working, and I hope you're in the middle of it, showing everybody up.  
  
Love you,  
Peter  
  
Neal folded the letter up and tucked it away then turned off the lights and let the tears come, tears for what he'd lost and what he hadn't.  
  
~~~  
  
A few days later, Neal thought that despite the awful embarrassment of it, blowing up at Kramer might have actually resulted in some changes. Suddenly, he was involved in more of the planning for the final stages of the Van Gogh sting, and though Kramer indicated that this had been his plan all along Neal had his doubts. He thought he should be glad to finally have the opportunity to do some work that would use his brain, but his brain seemed to be far less interested in participating.  
  
Neal's paintings were in play, being used as decoys to draw out the real thing before the sale and transfer could be completed, which would surely have the precious originals out of circulation for a decade if not a lifetime. Agent Hawkins had managed to earn the trust of the woman running the operation, and Agent Kuroki, who was presenting the information, was being decent enough to go out of his way to rehash for Neal's benefit information that the rest of the team must have already known.  
  
The problem was that as interested as he was in the case Neal kept being distracted by the petty complaints of his body and at one point the discussion seemed to skip from one topic to the next. Neal had the uncomfortable feeling that he had entirely missed the segue, and when he checked his watch it was later than he expected. Neal usually had a reliable internal clock, but he was somehow unsurprised that it had slipped a gear. Little else was working the way it should, after all.  
  
"Neal," Kramer said in his cold, calm voice of rebuke, "are we keeping you from something?"  
  
Neal looked up at Kramer, who nodded to Neal's watch. "No. Sorry about that."  
  
"Do you have anything to add here?"  
  
Neal did. He gave his perspective on what the fence was likely planning and gave some suggestions for how they might want to adjust their plans in response. Kramer was silent but some of the other agents were responsive. Neal had another one of his weird moments of spacing out in the middle of trying to describe a hypothetical theft from his past with enough misdirection to avoid giving Kramer any extra leverage against him. A sarcastic remark from Agent Green brought him back to himself, and he did his best to smooth over the lapse, but that did nothing to quiet the voice inside himself that said, "you're finally losing it, you're falling apart and nobody will even be able to name the pieces that are left."  
  
He smiled and hoped that he didn't look as unbalanced as he felt.  
  
~~~  
  
The next day, Neal could tell that something major was going on with the case, but he wasn't sure if Kramer was planning to include him on this one or not. Eventually, Kramer brought a file to Neal and dropped it on the desk with a clap that startled Neal.  
  
"Hawkins sent this in, and it's a code we haven't seen before, much more complex than the code used in her previous messages. I sent it over to the boys in decryption but they're tied up with something that has priority." Kramer looked galled at the idea of something being more important than a major art theft. Probably a petty case of national security. "If you can get anywhere with it, that'll go a long way toward convincing me you actually care about closing this case."  
  
Neal sat up straighter. "I do care. Sir."  
  
"You and I both know you haven't been giving this the benefit of your full attention. I don't know what you're planning, but unless you want to spend the prime of your life--the rest of the it, that is--behind bars I suggest you drop it."  
  
"All I'm planning to do is to help close this case."  
  
Kramer stared into Neal's eyes for a long moment then slowly shook his head. "I hope for your sake as well as mine that you're telling the truth. Prove it to me by translating those messages."  
  
Neal nodded and opened the file before Kramer walked away. Neal wished that did have some kind of ingenious plan, but even if he'd been able to see a way out he was too tired to run, too tired to care enough to take that risk. In an attempt to energize his mind, Neal went to get another cup of coffee and drank it down with apologies to his stomach. Back at his desk, he cleared some space to work and laid out the messages in front of him.  
  
At first glance, they were nothing more than gibberish, not any encryption system Neal knew off the top of his head, but he told himself that he was good at this. He told himself he could figure it out. Neal looked at the coded messages for the rest of the day, rearranging them on his desk, looking at them from different angles. Approaching a code was sometimes like looking at one of those old magic eye books, just a jumble of letters and symbols until the shape of it formed in his head and leapt off the page.  
  
Neal was vaguely aware of scratching idly at the irritated skin on his side as he worked, but satisfying that small physical urge helped to focus his mind on the task at hand. He didn't break the code by the end of the work day and Kramer didn't allow him to take the file home but he had it in his head, most of it at least. The constant focus gave him a headache, but at home Neal could lay on his bed in the comforting darkness and work on the code in the throbbing blackness behind his eyes.  
  
Neal fell asleep with senseless letters streaming through his brain, and while he was brushing his teeth in the morning the code resolved itself into words, sentences, dates and times. Still in his bathrobe, Neal went to find a piece of paper and sat down at his small table making notes, decoding as many of the messages as he could remember. He paused to look at his work, allowing himself to be proud for a little while before it was taken away from him. When he was startled into alertness by the sound of Kramer telling him it was time to leave, he was shivering with his hair still damp from the shower.  
  
He called out to Kramer, "I just need two minutes!" then hurried to get himself dressed and up to the car. Kramer's greeted him with a sour face and an impatient gesture toward the clock, but Neal flashed him the best smile he could summon. "I broke the code."  
  
During the car ride into DC, Kramer had Neal explain the code to agents who were already in the office, and they put it into play, translating other messages that hadn't been given to Neal and drafting a plan. It was good that Kramer had decided to put some small measure of trust into Neal because the paintings were going to be moved the next day, and if they had waited for the Bureau's encryption department to break the code the paintings would have been long gone.  
  
It should have felt like a victory, but Neal couldn't help feeling like something was going to go wrong. He told himself that while Peter had a gut that could predict what was going to happen, he himself only had a messed up gut, a gut that hated everything. He looked over his work and tried to ignore the nagging sense that something was wrong. The rest of the day was spent in meetings, and Neal did his best to help the agents as they reviewed maps and blueprints and put together a detailed plan for the operation.  
  
He did his best to stay present and to ignore the sneaking suspicion that the thing that was going wrong was his mind.  
  
~~~  
  
A major FBI operation was like a movie with a cast of thousands. There were agents in plainclothes, agents in suits with FBI windbreakers, agents in SWAT team gear. There were local police and agents from other state and federal law enforcement organizations involved. There were cars and vans and helicopters, and all of it was carefully orchestrated to achieve an objective with as little risk as possible to agents, civilians and property.  
  
At the center of this operation were two priceless paintings, two fakes, a handful of criminals and one undercover agent. Neal's paintings had made their way into the hands of a fence who was one of Barofsky's rivals, so Barofsky was forced to bring the real paintings out into the open to prove their authenticity to her buyer. Neal was in a surveillance van with Kramer and some other agents from the team, but they didn't have any kind of active feed from Hawkins. Barofsky was too paranoid to risk it.  
  
Agents were poised to swoop in at the appointed time and place, based on the translated messages. As he sat there in the van, Neal thought about the whole operation, the whole thing riding on his word, his decryption. If he'd made a mistake-- Neal's heart raced because he knew, he _knew_ that he'd gotten something wrong. He didn't know what it was, but something felt wrong. He was trying to figure out what to say to Kramer, how to say it, when Kramer broadcast the signal to go and the night lit up with sirens and voices and lights from the sky. And then the sound of gunshots from a nearby building because Neal _had_ gotten it wrong.  
  
Neal had gotten it wrong, and Hawkins only escaped being shot by jumping out of the way, from too far up. Hawkins ended up with a broken wrist and a mild concussion, and both fences and their associates were in the wind along with both the original paintings and Neal's copies. Worse, from a bureaucratic standpoint, hundreds of man-hours had been wasted along with the cost to mobilize the vehicles. And it was Neal's fault.  
  
Sitting there that night with the original coded messages and his decryptions in his hands, he could see the error plainly. He didn't understand how he'd gotten it wrong, but he also didn't remember decrypting that part of it in the first place. His handwriting. His paper. His notes. But it was like a stranger wrote it through him. A stranger inside of him.  
  
Kramer yelled, and Neal had nothing to say for himself, no way to defend himself. He was supposed to be the best, and he had failed so spectacularly that he didn't even want to defend himself. Hawkins could have been killed, and it would have been Neal's fault.  
  
Neal lost track of how many people yelled at him that night but the general consensus seemed to be that Neal had thrown the operation on purpose--to sabotage Kramer or the Bureau in general or for his own gain, as if Neal would have had any way to communicate with Barofsky even if he'd wanted to do so. Neal wanted to explain that he'd wanted the operation to succeed as much as--or more than--anyone else because the possibility of Kramer retiring in a blaze of glory gave him his only hope for escaping DC in the near future. Neal didn't bother to try explaining because nobody wanted to hear from him. He stood in the red and blue lit darkness, stood still as a whipping post and took every hit as his due.  
  
It was very late by the time he rode home with Kramer, but Neal knew he wasn't going to be able to sleep. He just sat in the darkness and ran through everything in his mind--the mistake, what had happened, what could have happened. He thought about what would happen to him next because there was no suspension, no leave without pay for criminal consultants. For him, there would be prison, and he was in no position to handle that well, especially not when he knew it might not be just another year or two. He thought about Peter and El, how disappointed they would be at his failure, at his fall. His mind skipped around from one worry to the next, from past to present to future and back around again until his head ached and throbbed with it. Somehow, sometime before night turned to morning, Neal managed to fall asleep.  
  
 **Interlude**  
  
It had been a close call, that day. Neal and Peter had been just barely fast enough to avoid being injured, maybe even killed, and when the most vital paperwork was done they stumbled home to El's arms, all of them shaking at how close they'd come, the closest since the three of them had been together. Neal had come close to being killed before while working with Peter but never before did he have to look in the faces of people who loved him, people who would have been devastated to lose him. It was humbling and somehow thrilling at the same time, and as exhausted as they all were, they were thrumming with tension at the same time.  
  
Full of need to be together, holding on to each other as if they'd never have to let go, they'd tumbled into bed together, already half-naked and shedding clothes as they went, needing to be skin-on-skin, all the way. Neal didn't know what he wanted, to fuck or be fucked. He wanted everything. He wanted both of them.  
  
"Here," Peter said, explaining nothing as he tugged on Neal's hips and pulled El in too. The tumbling confusion of knees and elbows gave way to order, and Peter slipped his lubed thumb into Neal's ass with a cool burn and opened him up just enough that the pain of Peter's cock pushing inside reminded him of where he was, what was happening. El nestled in under Neal's chest, and as Peter thrust forward, Neal guided his cock into her warm, slick folds.  
  
Neal braced his hands on the bed then and held them all still for a moment, surrounded and overwhelmed and right on the brink of coming or crying or coming apart. When he felt like he could breath again, Neal pushed his hips back against Peter's and reached one hand around to cup El's belly and then slid his hand down until the heel of his hand was tucked up against her clit. She gasped at the pressure there with their next thrust, and Peter drove them forward in a rhythm that felt just right.  
  
There weren't any words--Neal had no idea what he would've said if somebody begged him to speak. He closed his eyes and felt himself bumping back and forth between his lovers, Peter's cock moving inside him, Peter's balls soft against his ass, the smooth, generous curve of El's ass against his stomach, the tight, slick heat of her pulling him in, clenching tighter as he rubbed his hand in slow circles. He opened his eyes and saw El's dark hair spilling down her back, her pale skin turning pink from arousal and exertion. He saw Peter's hand on El's hip, and when he craned his head around he saw Peter's eyes closed, his lower lip clenched between his teeth, and he knew Peter was right on the edge.  
  
Neal squeezed his muscles tight around the length of Peter's cock, and Peter grunted and broke the rhythm, thrusting fast into Neal's ass until he came. Panting heavily against the back of Neal's neck, Peter knelt up and reached around Neal to cup his hands around El's breasts, pressing the three of them together tight. The heat and the pressure and the lingering sensation of Peter's cock sent Neal over the edge and El went with him, arching her chest up into Peter's hands and her hips into Neal's as she shook and Neal came inside her.  
  
They collapsed down on their sides, Neal still in the middle, and they were a mess of sweat and come, El's hair sticking to Neal's face and Peter's arm almost uncomfortably warm as he held them all together, but Neal didn't care. He was surrounded by the people who loved him, by the people who wanted him to be with them, to stay with them.  
  
He was right where he wanted to be.

 

 **Part Four**  
  
  
  
Neal knew as soon as he woke up that it wasn't going to be a good day. The headache he'd gone to bed with hadn't been kind enough to leave him during the night, and whatever small amount of sleep he'd gotten didn't feel like it was doing him any good. Kramer had said little on the way home, but Neal knew it was bad. His whole deal, his way of staying out of prison, was predicated on the idea that he could help close cases and save Bureau resources with his skills and experience. The fact that he had failed so spectacularly, that his assertions had led to the waste of a startling amount of resources and risk to the lives of several agents was a very, very bad thing.  
  
Neal was grateful that nobody had been seriously hurt but the whole thing made him feel sick. His alarm had gone off, but he stayed in bed for a few more minutes, curled around the pain in his stomach until he had no choice but to get up. The only bright spot was that his knee wasn't bothering him, and that gave him a tiny bit of hope that he'd be able to start running again. It was officially spring, even if most days were still cool and gray, and if Neal could manage to avoid any major repercussions from his mistake maybe Kramer would let him run outside, maybe early mornings in his neighborhood. The winter had been suffocating, and Neal thought he would feel better if he could just get some space, some air, some movement beneath his feet.  
  
"We'll work this out, son," Kramer said after a few quiet moments in the car.  
  
Neal thought he was almost inured to the irritation of that word, _son_ , but it still caused a spike of irritation that joined up with his headache to feel like a needle jabbing in right behind his eyes. Kramer's confidence gave Neal some hope, but he couldn't help thinking that nearly a year earlier he had thought that everything would be blue skies, his future wide open, and then powers greater than him, greater than Peter had come along and uprooted Neal to suit their agenda. And now it could be happening again, now it could end up with Neal back in prison with an untold number of new charges hanging over his head. Now, after three years working for the FBI, he'd have to be in AdSeg for sure, and he wouldn't survive. Neal knew with a grim certainty that he would die in there, and the thought of dying so hopelessly removed from Peter and Elizabeth made everything hurt worse.  
  
Neal breathed in through his nose and fought against the urge to slip out of his seatbelt and curl up right there in the car. Kramer focused on the murderous traffic, and for once Neal was in no hurry to get to the office. Inevitably, Kramer made his way to the parking deck, and Neal followed behind him as they walked toward the elevators. He'd made a point of dressing well that morning because no matter how much he would've rather worn a sweater and one of his more comfortable pairs of pants he had enough self-respect left to want to dress well for his own potential execution.  
  
Unfortunately, his neck itched under his shirt collar, and when he pulled at it he could feel the raised texture of a skin reaction that he could only hope would be hidden by his clothes. As much as he didn't like going to the doctor, that appointment Kramer had made for him couldn't come soon enough, though now Neal had to hope he wouldn't be in prison by that point. With just the two of them in the elevator, Neal felt Kramer watching him fuss and fidget like a little boy in his first suit and he forced himself to look relaxed, his hands loose at his sides.  
  
On the way to his desk, Neal picked up his usual morning coffee, but when he sat down and opened the lid he knew he wasn't going to be able to drink it. The caffeine might have helped his headache, which was progressing from annoying to distracting, but his stomach was far too sour already. Worried about the likelihood of being late for the meeting on account of being stuck in the restroom, Neal set the coffee aside and tried to focus on reviewing his notes, the notes on how he'd managed to be so wrong.  
  
"Neal?" Kramer's voice startled him and he looked at the time, relieved that they still had half an hour before the meeting.  
  
"Yes, sir?"  
  
"Are you feeling all right?"  
  
Neal wanted to laugh. He was feeling about as far from all right as he ever had in his life, but what did it matter? He didn't exactly have the option of taking a sick day to avoid the interrogation ahead. Even on a normal day, Kramer didn't trust him to stay alone in the house all day, unless something had changed since December. There was no point in asking for time off, and Neal wasn't about to cry to Kramer about all of his problems, all of his weaknesses.  
  
"Yes, I'm fine. Thank you." Neal swallowed against the bitter taste in his mouth and resisted the urge to press his thumbs against his forehead. "I'm just a little bit nervous."  
  
"Ah, well, you'll get through this just fine, and then I suspect you won't make the same mistake again, will you?"  
  
If the mistake was trusting that his analysis of a case was correct then no, Neal didn't think he'd be able to make that mistake again very soon. "No," Neal said as he stood up. "I'll be right back."  
  
Neal's stomach twisted as he hurried to the men's room, and giving in to his nausea only made his head hurt worse, but at least it was over quickly. On his way back through the bullpen, Agent Franz stopped him, and Neal felt a surge of hope that she had a new letter from Peter and El but instead she just peered up at him from her desk. "You look awful. Are you sick?"  
  
"Gee, thanks," Neal deadpanned while his mind raced with _You're coming apart. You're falling to pieces and everybody can see it._ "I'm just nervous about the meeting."  
  
Agent Franz didn't look like she believed him. "Well, good luck in there," she said after a moment of uncomfortable silence.  
  
The weak part of Neal wanted to break, to ask her to call Peter, to tell him that it was time, that he needed help, but Neal couldn't do it. "Thanks," he said, his throat feeling raw.  
  
By the time he got back to his office, Neal only had time to pick up his file and a pen and get ready to head to the conference room with Kramer. He didn't think he'd ever been so nervous. Throughout his life, Neal had channelled any kind of nervousness into keeping himself alert, vigilant, on top of his game, but now he couldn't manage it. This anxiety was too strong to be channelled in any useful direction, and instead it was just amplifying the pain in his head until it was almost the only thing in the world. The pain burned in his head, and as he sat down at the table with two section chiefs, an assistant director, and other people whose ranks he couldn't remember Neal felt the edges of the room shimmering around him.  
  
Kramer was saying something, but Neal couldn't quite grasp it. He needed...something. He tried to stand up but his lungs were tight, his whole body was tight, the room sparkled painfully in his head, and everything disappeared.  
  
~~~  
  
 _Mr. Caffrey? Neal? Neal?_ Somebody was poking him in the chest. _Neal, try to open your eyes._ Neal didn't know what was going on, but maybe Peter needed help. Maybe. He opened his eyes then moaned as bright light invaded his head. _Neal? Do you remember what happened?_  
  
Neal really, really didn't. He shook his head and let it all go.  
  
~~~  
  
"Mr. Caffrey, are you waking up?"  
  
Neal wasn't sure what was going on, but he definitely wasn't asleep anymore so he gave in and opened his eyes. His head didn't hurt as much as it had the last time Neal could remember, and in between there was just a jagged mess of memory shards that Neal didn't want to touch. The man talking to him was dressed like a doctor, and when Neal looked around he saw that he was in an emergency room.  
  
"Mr. Caffrey, I'm Dr. Rao, and you're at the GW Hospital. Can you tell me the last thing you remember?"  
  
"I, uh, I had a headache. I was in a meeting. I--did I pass out?"  
  
"You had a seizure, Mr. Caffrey. Have you had a head injury recently?"  
  
"I don't think so." Neal's stomach twisted, and he tried to turn on his side, but the doctor stopped him.  
  
"What else is hurting?" Dr. Rao pressed into Neal's middle, and it really didn't feel good at all. "Your stomach? Okay, well, we're going to admit you and see if we can figure out what's making you sick. Okay, Mr. Caffrey?"  
  
Neal nodded and closed his eyes, but he didn't fall asleep so much as drift. He could feel that some kind of pain medicine was in his system, but as much as it blurred the edges of his pain it didn't help the thoughts that were spinning around in his head. What would they do to him if he'd missed the meeting? Did they have the meeting without him? Did they have it and he just couldn't remember? Was he going to prison? What was he supposed to do? Was he dying? Was he going to die before he got to see anybody he loved? Anybody who gave a damn about him as a person rather than a tool to be used by the Bureau?  
  
After a while, he heard Kramer's voice and Dr. Rao's and somebody else, a woman. Their words came to him in disconnected scraps that he collected in the hope of making sense of them. _Seizure_ and _guarding_ and _fever_ , _poison_ and _toxin_ , _bloodwork_ and _waiting_. The words fluttered in like a pile of dry leaves, then two words together dropped into the middle of them like a dead bird: _prison infirmary_. Panic flooded through Neal's body, waking up everything that had been weighed down by the drugs.  
  
He felt sick, and he knew he was going to lose the battle but he tried to sit up and had only managed to barely lift his shoulders from the bed when the bitter taste flooded his mouth and he heaved it up onto his chest. His chest, which burned like somebody was slowly shoving a hot soldering iron through his ribcage. He coughed and frowned as he tasted something different, and then as he felt a hand on his back pushing him up to sit his stomach cramped again.  
  
Blood. Everywhere. On his tongue and his lips, on his chest and the sheets. Blood and blood and it all went dark.  
  
~~~  
  
Neal woke slowly, content to leave his eyes closed as he drifted. The sounds around him filtered in through the darkness, and he thought _hospital_ but it wasn't particularly connected to anything else so he kept floating. After a while, he felt a twinge in his chest and woke up all the way, gasping at the memory of pain and blood and fear.  
  
"Neal?" There was a voice, sounding terribly like Peter. "It's okay. You're okay."  
  
Neal looked toward the voice, and he couldn't quite believe that it really was Peter. He tried to sit up from the semi-reclining position he was in, but he didn't get far before Peter's arms were around him, pulling him close. There, with Peter's arms around him, Peter's warmth and bulk surrounding him, Peter's still-familiar scent filling his nose where his head was cradled against Peter's shoulder, Neal couldn't do anything but shake. He tried to speak, but he was shaking too hard, and Peter just shushed him and held him closer. Neal tried to pull himself back together, but he fell back to sleep before he could find out how Peter could suddenly be in DC.  
  
When Neal woke again, he remembered seeing Peter, and he tentatively opened his eyes, hoping that it had been real and that Peter was still there. He still hurt, but he could feel drugs blurring it all out; if Peter had been a hallucination Neal didn't know how he was going to deal with that. But there was Peter, typing on a tablet and frowning at it the way he always did when faced with typing on a touch screen.  
  
"Hey," Neal said, then winced at the rough feeling of his throat.  
  
Peter looked up and blindly fumbled the tablet down onto the floor. "Hey, you," he said, his voice so soft Neal wanted to cry. "How are you feeling?"  
  
"I don't know." _Scared_ , Neal wanted to say, but he had a feeling that was clear enough on his face. "Thirsty?"  
  
Peter sighed. "I'm sorry, you're not allowed to have anything right now." He put his hand on Neal's arm, his fingers warm and a little bit rough against the inside of Neal's wrist.  
  
Neal nodded. "How are you here? Kramer?"  
  
"You think that Phil Kramer could keep me away now? We got the call that you had--" Peter paused, looking ill. "That you had a seizure in the office, and I was on the highway before we knew what hospital they were taking you to. El's on her way too. She had to finish some things up and get us squared away at home, but she'll be coming in by train this evening."  
  
It was unreal, after so many months, to see Peter, to know that he'd be seeing El. And it was terrifying because he couldn't think of many reasons Kramer would allow it. "Will you tell me the truth?" Neal asked, his voice just above a whisper.  
  
Peter nodded, looking earnest and concerned.  
  
"Am I dying?" The pain in Neal's chest was worse, and his eyes burned but he had to know.  
  
"No!" Peter gripped Neal's wrist tighter and shook his head hard. "No, of course not. God, no." Peter's voice shook at the end, but his eyes were steady, locked on Neal's, and Neal tried to let himself believe. "Do you want me to see if I can get your doctor in here?"  
  
"Just tell me what you know?"  
  
"Okay. There's nothing wrong with your brain or your heart and nothing bad showing up in your blood work. They're still doing tests but the going theory is that everything going on with you has been caused by some kind of stress reaction. And then it all kind of snowballed on you."  
  
That didn't make a lot of sense to Neal. "Stress, but--"  
  
"Your doctor, or one of them or all of them, I don't know, will tell us more later but the most important thing is that they think you'll be able to recover. Completely. You'll be okay." Peter frowned. "I'm so angry at Phil Kramer that I don't know what to do."  
  
"He didn't do anything to me."  
  
"Maybe not. Or, I think he didn't intend to, but he did. And I'm not sure how we're going to resolve this, but I promise you that you won't be alone the way you have been this past year."  
  
Neal wanted to believe that, but he knew what the situation was, the way he was trapped. "That sounds good but I don't think it's realistic." He shook his head and closed his eyes, exhausted again. Then Neal remembered what he'd overheard earlier, and the spike of worry was muted, buried under what felt like some serious drugs. "Prison hospital?"  
  
"That's not happening. You don't need to worry about it, just rest. If you wake up and neither of us is here, we'll be close by." Peter bent closer then, his breath warm on Neal's face, and pressed a kiss to the bridge of his nose, the base of his forehead below the sticky patches that pulled at his skin. The touch of his lips was dry and soft but it lingered as Neal dropped off to sleep.  
  
When Neal woke again it was light out. He could feel the sunlight on his eyelids even before he opened his eyes, but what he saw when he did open them was even better. Elizabeth sat in the chair next to his bed reading a magazine with her legs folded in front of her, bare feet with bright pink toenails. Her hair was loose, hanging down in front of her face, and Neal wanted to see more.  
  
"El?"  
  
She looked up, startled, then smiled and stood up. "Neal! Oh, sweetie, I've missed you so much." Her hand on his face was soft, and he could smell the perfume on her wrist, the spicy floral one she knew he liked best.  
  
"Missed you too," Neal said, feeling like it was the understatement of the year. "Is it morning?"  
  
"Early morning. I'm not really allowed to be here this early but apparently they're making an exception. At least one of your doctors should be in soon on rounds, I think. Peter's back at our hotel room, getting a little rest I hope before he goes to meet with Kramer." She said the name like it burned.  
  
"He really didn't do anything to me."  
  
"He took you away from us," she said, and Neal couldn't argue with that.  
  
When the doctor finally came, he asked El to leave but Neal asked her to stay. She stayed. The doctor recapped everything that had happened: the big events of the seizure in the office, the panic attack and the blood, and also the small things that had been creeping up on him. The allergy and the not sleeping well and the knee that never got better, the pain that turned out to be acid reflux and the absent moments that were probably small seizures. _Seizures_. Neal felt his heart start to race despite the drugs that were still in his system, and El took his hand, reminding him that he wasn't alone.  
  
"Mr. Caffrey, Agent Burke explained your recent move and change in circumstances, and I believe that all of this has been caused by your body over-reacting to stress. Sometimes, when the amount of stress a person is experiencing exceeds their ability to cope with it, that stress manifests as physical symptoms from minor to, as you have seen, quite serious. We'll monitor you for a bit longer to be certain, but it appears that your seizures were what we call psychogenic non-epileptic seizures. The good part of all of this is that you most likely won't require anticonvulsant therapy and all of your symptoms should resolve themselves as your stress level decreases and you develop more effective coping skills."  
  
"I've been under a lot more stress than this, I promise. It doesn't make sense."  
  
"One stressful situation isn't the same as another, and it may be that some of your usual coping skills have been unavailable to you. To be honest, that's not my speciality, but we are going to get somebody in here to help you figure out how to avoid this happening again. You're going to be here for a few days while we monitor your brain activity and also make sure that your esophagus is healing and hopefully see some reduction in the rest of your symptoms. Does that sound okay to you?"  
  
"I guess I don't have a lot of choice, do I?"  
  
The doctor looked uncomfortable at that, but he didn't argue. He shook Neal's hand, shook El's hand, then left them alone again. They were both quiet, and before Neal could figure out what to say his breakfast arrived. It was horrible, soft and bland, but Neal ate as much of it as he could stomach. When he couldn't take any more of it, El took the tray over to the other side of the room then came back and hopped up to perch on the edge of his bed. "You should get some more rest," she said, and Neal nodded, exhausted.  
  
"Do you want to be alone?" she asked, and Neal thought that maybe he should say that he did, give her the guilt-free opportunity to slip away, get out of the oppressiveness of the hospital room. But the truth was that he ached to not be alone, and he couldn't make himself lie. He shook his head, and El smiled gently. She hit the button to make the bed recline back closer to flat then nudged the side of Neal's hip. "Can you roll over?"  
  
It wasn't entirely easy, connected to as many tubes and wires as he was, but Neal managed to turn over onto his side, and then El curled up behind him and tucked him in close to her chest. Through the open back of the hospital gown, he could feel the soft knit of her sweater and the heat of her body. She intertwined her fingers with his and murmured, "I'm here. I love you. I'm here," until he fell asleep.  
  
~~~  
  
Neal woke to El's voice in his ear as she climbed out from behind him. "I'm sorry sweetie, there's a doctor on her way to talk to you, and they're kicking me out. I won't be far though, okay?" Neal nodded, not quite awake enough to know what to say. Whatever was in that IV attached to his arm made his brain feel slow and soft, but nothing hurt and in the balance he was okay with that.  
  
The doctor who came into the room a few minutes later was young and closer to plain than pretty, and when he realized what she was there for he started to wish that the drugs were out of his system because he was in no shape to do any tap-dancing but honesty was a frightening concept.  
  
"Neal? Hi, I'm Dr. Horvath, and I'm here to talk to you about what's been going on."  
  
"What kind of doctor are you?" Neal asked, already knowing.  
  
"I'm a psychiatrist, and Dr. Rao asked me to consult on your case. Is that okay with you?"  
  
Neal wanted to say no, but he didn't think he was in much of a position to do so, and he didn't even feel like arguing. "I guess so. Can you tell me what I'm on right now?"  
  
"Just a low dose of Valium to help you rest and stay relaxed. We'll discontinue it now that you're feeling a little bit better."  
  
"Good. I'm not all that fond of being drugged."  
  
The doctor tilted her head to the side and back. "I'd think of it more as medicated than drugged, but I understand what you mean. Now, can you tell me about what's been going on in your life? I've been told that you moved down here last spring, so you can start there if you want."  
  
Neal sighed. He thought about what to tell her, what not to tell her, and lying seemed like too much work. He told her about working for Kramer and staying with him, about how much better things had been when he'd been able to go running, about missing his good friends (he very carefully didn't say lovers) in New York. He told her about the small things that had been creeping up on him, about how much he didn't feel like himself, hadn't felt like himself in months. He did his best to keep it factual, to avoid complaining, because he knew he wasn't an innocent in the situation; this was supposed to be punishment, after all.  
  
When he finished, Neal looked up at the doctor, and her face was professionally impassive but not unkind. "Thank you for sharing that, Neal. Now, as I said before, I'm just consulting on your case. I'm going to write up some recommendations, both for Dr. Rao who's managing your case and for your supervisory agents, and I believe that when you're discharged you should follow-up with a psychologist so that you can avoid ending up in the situation in the future."  
  
Neal thought about arguing, but the fact was that he'd do just about anything within reason to avoid being this sick and miserable again. "I'll do what I have to do."  
  
"That's good to hear. Is there anything you want to ask me?"  
  
"What are you going to recommend?"  
  
A trace of a smile tugged at the doctor's lips. "You understand that this is just a recommendation from one doctor?" At Neal's nod, she continued. "Your symptoms, both physical and mental, seem to me to be highly situational. As such, I'm going to recommend that your living and/or working situation be changed to give you more social interaction."  
  
Neal nodded, feeling a spark of hope. "That--that sounds like it would be good."  
  
"Well, Neal, I probably won't see you again before you're discharged but I hope you'll be feeling better soon. The most important thing you can do right at the moment is rest."  
  
"Thank you." Neal watched the doctor leave, and then closed his eyes. He meant to stay awake until El came back from wherever she'd gone, but his body had other plans.  
  
When he woke again, El was there, along with a lunch tray. Neal raised the back of the bed, and El climbed in next to him again, the two of them pressed hip to hip with El's laptop on their legs. While Neal worked his way through his bland lunch, they watched a movie, and if romantic comedies weren't usually Neal's favorite genre he thought El's choice was perfect. After all, even if you fall asleep halfway through you still know how the story ends--happily ever after. Happily ever after sounded like a very good thing to Neal.  
  
The next time Neal woke up, he was alone and the light visible through his window told him it was early evening if not later. He tried not to be disappointed that Peter and El had left; they needed rest after all, rest and food and time spent outside Neal's hospital room. When a nurse came to check on him, Neal got him to help manage the various things he was hooked up to--fewer than when he'd first woken up in the morning--and made his way to the bathroom to wash up and brush his teeth. It felt good to get out of the bed and good to get back in it a few minutes later.  
  
When both Peter and El walked into the room twenty minutes later, Neal didn't even pretend not to be happy to see them. "Hey, you're back."  
  
"Of course we're back," El said, smiling and coming over to take Neal's hand. "You look like you're feeling a little bit better."  
  
"You mean I smell a little bit better?"  
  
"Hmm, that too."  
  
Neal let go of El's hand and trailed his hand along her arm up to her shoulder then rested his hand lightly on the back of her hair. "Can I?"  
  
"Oh baby, of course." El moved under the gentle pressure of Neal's hand and met his lips. They lingered for a moment with their closed lips lightly touching then opened their mouths to deepen the kiss, and for Neal it felt like coming home. Even in the hospital room, he had a little bit of home with the taste of her tongue in his mouth and her soft skin against his.  
  
Neal felt a broad hand on his back and warm breath on his cheek, and when he pulled away from El to take a breath he turned and met Peter's mouth. Peter's lips were just a little bit rough where El's were soft, and the gentleness of the kiss didn't stop it from feeling like a claiming, like Peter's way of telling Neal he didn't intend to ever let him go again. When Neal finally pulled away and sank back against his mattress he felt as pleasantly exhausted as if they'd just made love for an hour straight.  
  
Peter sighed, his soft eyes turning serious. "Do you think you're up to talking about what's going to happen when you get out of here in a day or two?"  
  
"Has a decision already been made?"  
  
"I've been in meetings all day with, God, you don't want to know all the people I've been meeting with, and yes a decision has been made."  
  
Neal closed his eyes, preparing himself for endless years here in DC.  
  
"Hon, just tell him!" El stage-whispered.  
  
"How would you feel about coming home?"  
  
Neal opened his eyes with a jolt to see Peter smiling at him. "Home?"  
  
"Home. There are some details to be worked out, but when you leave this hospital you'll be riding back to New York with us. If, you know, that's okay with you."  
  
"I think I can live with that." Neal's eyes burned, and he blinked hard then rubbed at his face. "I can definitely live with that."  
  
~~~  
  
The next morning, while Peter and El were out getting breakfast, Kramer came to visit, looking less self-assured than Neal had ever seen him. Neal felt his mouth go dry with fear that Kramer was fighting to overturn the decision that was going to allow Neal to return to New York. "Agent Kramer," he said, "good morning."  
  
"Good morning, Neal." Kramer walked closer and looked around, his gaze taking in Neal, the room, the equipment. When he finally made eye-contact Neal was surprised at what he saw there--Kramer was honestly horrified. "You scared the hell out of me, son. Out of a lot of people."  
  
That _son_ chafed just as much as always, but Neal didn't let himself react. "I'm sorry, sir."  
  
"No, Neal, I'm sorry. I know you probably don't believe this, but I was honestly trying to help you, to help you reach your potential. I certainly didn't want to cause you harm, but it looks like I may have."  
  
Neal didn't respond immediately. He didn't want to push the issue by laying blame on Kramer, but he didn't want to assuage Kramer's guilt either. After a long, quiet moment he asked the one question he hadn't been able to get out of his mind since talking to Peter. "Are you going to continue to investigate my past? And what about the potential charges from Staten Island?"  
  
Kramer shook his head. "I've decided to retire this year, so I'll have more important things to do as I finish out my tenure with the Bureau than pursue cold cases. From what I hear, Reese Hughes is planning to offer you immunity in exchange for information that would lead to the return of stolen goods. I recommend you take him up on that offer."  
  
"I--okay." Neal's head spun with the new information; Peter had alluded to details to be worked out, but Neal had assumed that no matter what he'd have to worry about Kramer or other agents like him for years to come. But immunity sounded like a clean slate, like relief. At this point, Neal would gladly confess his sins and turn over what was left in his caches for a future where he could be free, unfettered by his past crimes. "Thank you, sir."  
  
"I'm not the one to thank. Now, Peter will be bringing you by to pack up your things later. If I don't see you after that, I wish you well." Kramer tapped his fingers on the side of Neal's bed. "Just remember, son, that life is better on the right side of the law."  
  
Neal wanted to laugh or scream or roll his eyes until they hurt, but he forced himself to nod. "Thank you."  
  
Kramer left then, and Neal stared at the ceiling, thinking about how strange his life could be sometimes. Kramer was gone, and soon Peter and El would come back. He knew it would take a while before he felt like himself again, but he had survived Kramer, survived DC, survived it all without losing the people he loved. As far as Neal was concerned, he had won.  
  
~~~  
  
Getting discharged by each of the doctors in turn took the rest of the day and left Neal anxious enough about what was waiting for him in New York that he had to give in and let the nurse give him one of the pills the doctor had prescribed after they took the Valium out of his IV. He hated having to do that--he was going home, he wasn't alone, things were better--but apparently his mind and body hadn't quite received the message, and he didn't want to risk something happening that would keep him from going home with Peter and El the next day. The doctors came to see him one by one and left him with prescriptions, instructions and referrals.  
  
There were pills for the ulcer and for the acid reflux that caused it, plus instructions on what to eat and an appointment with a doctor in New York. There was anti-anxiety medicine, pamphlets on stress reduction and appointments with a shrink _and_ a counsellor. Dr. Horvath wanted Neal to take an antidepressant as well, but Neal resisted; if he didn't feel better about things when he was back living in New York then he'd consider it but he didn't think that was going to happen. The dermatologist released him with a prescription for the cream that had been making the irritating rash on his skin fade away, and Neal was glad to be done with that.  
  
The orthopedist said that his knee was healing well, that most of the pain had been caused by his mental state and by his whole body being in disarray. She gave Neal instructions on exercises to do, exercises he'd been too drained to worry about doing for the last few months. It was still too soon for him to get back to running the way he had been, but she showed him the scans of his knee and promised that it was in good shape. It was good news but overwhelming at the same time, to know that he'd done all of this to himself, that he'd made himself so sick.  
  
Peter and El had been chased out of the room more often than not with everything that was going on, but when the final doctor had come and gone and Neal was just waiting for his discharge paperwork Peter sat on the bed next to Neal and looked at him consideringly. "What's going on in your head?"  
  
Neal sighed. "I just can't believe I did this to myself. There's nothing wrong with me, and I had a _seizure_? That's not--not right, not me."  
  
Peter put his hand on the back of Neal's neck and held on like he wanted to shake him, but he only rubbed gently, and Neal relaxed back into Peter's touch. "I don't know how you got from all of this that there's nothing wrong with you. You're sick, the situation made you sick, and you'll get better."  
  
"We'll make sure of it," El said, perching on the other side of the bed.  
  
Neal nodded, though he wasn't entirely sure he believed what they were saying. "Are things going to be the same? June's house, the radius, the office?"  
  
"You're going to have some time off to recover, and I'm taking vacation time--"  
  
"And I have to work a few events but I'll be home a lot, too."  
  
"Right, but after that you'll come back to your desk in the bullpen, the same as before. Everybody's looking forward to having you back."  
  
That sounded good, but Neal realized that Peter hadn't entirely answered the question. "And outside of work?"  
  
"You're going to have a smaller radius, just for now, half a mile. I had to make some concessions, but once you're back at work I'll work on getting it increased. As long as you keep out of trouble it'll be back to two miles within a few months. Can you live with that?"  
  
"That's a lot more than I've had here, so I can definitely live with it. And there's a lot to do within half a mile of June's house."  
  
"About that," Peter started, and Neal felt his stomach drop. "No, hey, it's nothing bad, I don't think." Peter looked at El, who reached out and squeezed Neal's hand.  
  
"We want you to come live with us," El said. She smiled nervously, and Neal squeezed her hand back.  
  
"But the Marshals? And the Bureau?"  
  
Peter held up his hand. "Your doctor's biggest recommendation was that you not be isolated. June would love to have you back, but she'll be traveling some, and I don't like the thought of you rattling around in that apartment alone. Officially, you'll be staying in our guest room on the third floor, and that can be your space for whatever you want to do."  
  
"And unofficially?" Neal's voice sounded weak to his own ears.  
  
"Unofficially, we don't want you to sleep alone." El snuggled closer against Neal's side.  
  
"And if you want to move back to June's once you're feeling better, you'll be free to do that as well."  
  
Neal didn't know what to say. It was everything he'd dreamed of during the long months sleeping alone in Kramer's basement. It was everything. "I'm really going home," he said, needing his own voice to make it sink in.  
  
"You really are." Peter rubbed softly at the back of Neal's neck, and Neal was on the verge of drifting off to sleep when the door opened and a nurse walked in with Neal's discharge paperwork. Finally, he was free to go.  
  
~~~  
  
Walking into Kramer's house with Peter and Elizabeth was a strange experience, but Neal didn't linger. He didn't have many personal things to pack, just his clothes and toiletries along with a few books and his nearly-empty sketchbook. The most important thing was Neal's cache of letters from Peter and El, squirreled away inside his mattress, pushed in through a carefully cut seam. El was helping Neal pack while Peter was doing his best to insult Kramer without saying anything actionable, and Neal caught her looking when he was fishing out the folded up letters.  
  
"I don't know how to thank you and Peter for keeping in touch. It meant more than you think, probably."  
  
El frowned, her eyes sad. "Don't forget, we were missing you too. I know it's not the same, that we had each other and our normal lives, but it never stopped hurting, having you gone like that. Your letters meant a lot to us too." El zipped up the garment bag she'd been stuffing then draped it over Neal's other suitcase and stood looking around the room with her hands on her hips. "Not that you gave us very much in the few letters you sent, mister."  
  
Neal felt a pang of guilt. "I didn't want you to worry. And I didn't want Peter to do anything that would hurt his career."  
  
El shook her head. "We worried anyway. And Peter, well, he can make his own decisions. I just wish you had reached out to us before things got so bad for you."  
  
Neal took a deep breath and let it out slowly, holding his collection of letters in his hands like a pile of stemless blooms. "In retrospect, I wish I had, too."  
  
El hugged him and then they left Neal's little basement apartment together. They didn't look back.  
  
In the car on the way back up to New York, Neal didn't mind having the back seat to himself. He stretched out as much as he could within the confines of the seatbelt and slept most of the way. He woke to El's hand jostling his good knee when they stopped for dinner somewhere outside Philly. It was far from the kind of restaurant outings Neal had been missing in his first months away from New York, but as sleepy as Neal felt it was still like a dream. He sat in a mediocre chain restaurant and ate mediocre clam chowder and bread, and it was wonderful.  
  
 **Epilogue**  
  
Neal walked down the street, not in any hurry, heading toward the park near Peter and Elizabeth's house. Near _home_. He wouldn't be able to wander the whole park, not yet, but at least part of it was inside the edge of his smaller radius. Flowers were starting to bloom again, and sometimes Neal would get a whiff of them over the usual smells of the city. Just one ice cream truck was around, a harbinger of not-so-distant summer, and Neal bought himself a cup of artisanal blackberry vanilla and went to sit on an empty bench.  
  
Since there was nobody asking, Neal could admit to himself that he was a little bit tired. The months of not being able to run, first barely walking in the huge leg brace and then trying not to limp within the tight radius of office and home, along with the whole mess that had put him in the hospital had wrecked his stamina. Neal hadn't ever really thought of walking as something that would make him tired, but half an hour of strolling around the neighborhood had left him ready for a break. The house was little more than a five minute walk away if he went straight there, but he wasn't ready to go inside, not quite yet.  
  
It seemed strange that while his time with Kramer had left Neal starving for social interaction it had also left him craving this--chosen solitude. Being alone in his basement bedroom like a lonely child wasn't nearly the same thing as being a man alone in the city, enjoying the sunshine and the people-watching. And while he had been free to eat anything he could buy from the huge, suburban, high-end grocery store near Kramer's house, somehow none of it had been as appealing as Peter's pot roast or El's breakfasts or this paper cup of ice cream bought on the street.  
  
Neal hadn't realized, until everything fell apart, just how bad things had become. He saw himself as the slowly-boiled frog; he'd fought against the water at first but then he gave up and before he knew it the water had been almost hot enough to kill him. Now that he was out of the pot, now that his body was healing he could understand how bad he'd felt. He wouldn't have thought he could get used to a thing like that, but the evidence said that he had. After two weeks back in New York, his stomach was healing, his skin bore only slight, fading evidence of the allergy, and his head was clear. Mostly clear.  
  
The doctors wanted him to take the anti-anxiety pills regularly, but after a week of resting and feeling like his brain was moving at half-speed, Neal knew that wasn't going to work for him. He'd tapered them down almost to nothing, would be done with it in another day, but he promised Peter that he would carry a few with him, that he'd take one if necessary. Neal didn't even mind making that promise because even though he couldn't remember having a seizure, even though he couldn't really internalize that he'd been having small seizures before that, the idea of it happening again was more terrifying than Neal wanted to admit, even to Peter. Even to El.  
  
In a few days, Neal would go back to work with Peter, light duty with the flexibility to leave when necessary for appointments and other approved purposes, the latter of which would include outings with Mozzie. Neal was determined to stay away from any of Mozzie's more legally questionable schemes, but this one was completely above board and could even be passed off to the powers that be as medically necessary. Neal wasn't in love with the idea, at least not yet, but Mozzie talked him into going to some kind of classes at the zen meditation center he belonged to. Neal wanted to believe that everything would be fine now that he was back in New York but if he fell apart again he didn't know what would happen.  
  
Aside from the effects it could have on his health and his future and his freedom, if Neal fell apart again now that he was back where he wanted to be, it would mean that it was Neal's own inherent weakness that had caused the whole mess rather than Kramer and the situation Kramer built around him. Neal would be damned if he let that happen, and if learning to sit and not think was the alternative to disintegration or haziness, then Neal was ready to be a very good student.  
  
When Neal had his fill of fresh air and watching the world go by, he threw away his empty cup and spoon and turned back toward the house. He let himself inside, expecting to find only Satchmo since El had an afternoon event and Peter was back at work, but when he got inside he found Peter looking at him with his phone in hand.  
  
"I was just about to call you. Where were you?"  
  
"Within my radius," Neal snapped, and immediately regretted it.  
  
Peter's mouth tightened at the corners, but his voice was calm when he replied, "I figured that. I was just worried about you."  
  
"I was walking, and I sat in the park for a while. Why didn't you just check my tracking data?"  
  
Peter sighed. "Because I was worried about you in context of the fact that I love you and you're still recovering from being sick, and maybe I'm still recovering from you being gone. Given that I was not worried about you in the context of your position as my CI, I thought you would appreciate it if I called you before resorting to the tracking data."  
  
Neal nodded, feeling like a jerk. It was difficult to remember that Peter and El had been missing him all the while he'd been missing them, difficult to remember that their pain might have been different but they were hurt as well. "I do. I'm sorry." Neal took two steps forward, right into Peter's space, and tipped his head down to rest his forehead on the meat of Peter's shoulder. He inhaled Peter's familiar scent then relaxed more heavily against Peter when he felt the weight of Peter's hand on his back.  
  
"You feel okay?" Peter asked, voice gentle now.  
  
Neal nodded against Peter's shoulder. "I'm good."  
  
Peter rubbed his thumb over a tiny patch of Neal's back. "Go rest. I'm going up to change, then I'll be back down."  
  
Neal had a bedroom, theoretically. If anybody official ever looked into the living arrangement, Neal had a perfectly serviceable bed on the third floor. The fact that it was a futon that could be folded into a couch to make more space for Neal to use the room as a studio didn't matter, and Neal did use the room for at least one of the normal purposes of a bedroom--he got dressed in there every day because there was barely enough room for Peter's minimal wardrobe to fit in the closet with El's clothes. Neal was happy to have his own closet and chest of drawers on the third floor. It was good to have his own space, and it was good to not spend much time there.  
  
Neal had been embarrassed at first by his need for afternoon naps, but there was something nice about stretching out on the couch with the afternoon sunlight streaming in through the front windows, listening to the muted street sounds from outside and the small noises of Peter or El working nearby. And he didn't need as much rest now; he only wanted to close his eyes for a while and take advantage of one of his last free days before going back to work. Tomorrow would be Friday and Neal had agreed, not at all reluctantly, to let El and June plan a welcome home party. After that, Neal would have the weekend to get ready to go back to work, but that was okay too. It was time.  
  
~~~  
  
Neal hadn't slept alone since they got home; in fact, he hadn't spent a night alone since the near-sleepless night before he landed himself in the hospital. He hadn't slept alone, but both Peter and El had been tentative about sex since they got home. They touched him all the time and held onto him through the night, but as he got his energy back Neal was craving more. He was self-conscious though, about the way his body looked, damaged as it had been by the last several months.  
  
Peter caught him standing in front of the full-length mirror in the bedroom, studying the places where he'd lost muscle, the lingering remnants of what the allergy had done to his skin, the fading bruises from IVs in the hospital. "Hey you," Peter said, and then he stood to the side silently for a moment. Then he came into view behind Neal in the mirror, his body broad and solid and healthy, and wrapped his arms around Neal's chest. "What's wrong?"  
  
"I'm not exactly presenting a pretty picture right now, am I?"  
  
"You're beautiful." Peter ran one hand down Neal's too-flat stomach and cupped his balls, and Neal let himself lean back against Peter.  
  
"Right, hospital chic."  
  
"I want to see you healthier, but Jesus Neal. I'm so fucking glad to have you here with us."  
  
Neal sighed. There was no way to speak his mind without sounding pathetic, but Peter had heard worse from him. "But you and El, do you really still want me? Sexually?"  
  
Peter rubbed his face against the back of Neal's hair then met Neal's eyes in the mirror. "More than anything--anything other than you being well, that is. We didn't want to push it when you didn't seem to be in the mood."  
  
"I got sick; I didn't get neutered," Neal said, but then he thought about how tired he'd been, the drugs he'd been on. "No, you're right, I wasn't thinking about sex for a while." Neal turned in Peter's arms and pressed his hand over the zipper of Peter's jeans. "But I'm thinking about it now."  
  
"Mmhmm, I can tell."  
  
"Is this a private party?" El said from behind them, and Neal looked over Peter's shoulder to see her leaning in the doorway, smiling at them.  
  
"Neal feels we've been neglecting a key part of his--" Peter stroked one finger from the base of Neal's back down over his ass. "--recovery. I think it's time we see to that."  
  
"Sounds like a good idea to me." El pulled her shirt off as she walked over to join them. "What mode of therapy are you up for, Neal?"  
  
"I want to taste you," Neal said, looking straight at El. He thumbed open the button on Peter's jeans and pulled down the zipper. "I want you inside me."  
  
"We can do that." Peter pushed his jeans down, and Neal watched both of them undress to meet him where he already was--naked, vulnerable, ready.  
  
They took their time, no hurry, no rush, and while Neal lost himself in pleasuring El, Peter knelt behind him, slowly opening him up. Neal was immersed five-senses deep, not drowning but seeming to breathe underwater, the taste and smell of El's body--everywhere, overwhelming, home. He listened to her sighs and gasps of pleasure along with the sound of his own heartbeat and the shifting of their bodies on the sheets. He felt the soft skin of her legs under his hands, her wet, delicate folds against his face, Peter's fingers slipping inside him. He found himself working his tongue on El's clit at the same pace as Peter's thumb rubbing slick, firm circles around his hole.  
  
El started to shake, her hips twitching against him, and he kept going with light strokes until she was still. When he raised his head to look at her she was draped back over the pillows, her hair fanned out around her flushed and smiling face, and he knelt up to kiss her. Peter joined them at the head of the bed and kissed them both then arranged some pillows behind himself and leaned against the headboard with his legs spread.  
  
"Come here," Peter said and tugged on Neal until Neal straddled his lap. They were both hard, cocks brushing against each other, just enough touch to leave Neal wanting more. Then El was behind him, pulling him back to lean against her. It was awkward at first, Neal lifting up his hips and lowering himself down around the girth of Peter's cock. He'd forgotten exactly how this felt, the touch of pain and the way the pain was washed away by pleasure and need.  
  
El wrapped one hand around Neal's cock and the three of them found a rhythm--Peter's hips pushing up, Neal riding him, El holding him steady, holding them both together, El bringing him to the edge just in time to fall along with Peter. Neal rode the wave of pleasure that washed through his body, and when it was gone he found himself slumped back against El's chest, her arms cradling him as she traced patterns in the sweat on his chest. Peter moved slowly, his soft cock slipping easily from Neal's body, and he tugged on Neal and El until they were all in a pile together, languid and sweaty and complete.  
  
Neal's whole body hummed with the kind of good feeling that he'd forgotten how to feel. He promised himself that he would never forget again.  
  
~~~  
  
Neal's old apartment at June's house was nearly unrecognizable, in the best possible way. Most of the furniture had been removed or relocated, and the main room and the terrace were both hung with lights. Jazz played through a sound system Neal didn't remember seeing before, and the food and drink were kept flowing by a bartender and a server. It seemed like a lot of expense for a party of less than twenty people, but with El and June on the job Neal wasn't surprised, and he wasn't about to argue. The party was classy but relaxed, and Neal was glad to have the opportunity to reconnect with people before going back to work.  
  
Several members of the White Collar team were there, including Clinton and Diana, both of them attending with new girlfriends on their arms, but the surprise was Agent Hughes. Neal hadn't seen Hughes since his first year working with Peter, and he had thought the old man had probably retired until he heard that Hughes was involved in engineering his return to New York. Peter's boss had never seemed to approve of Neal's presence in the White Collar office, so Neal wasn't sure what to expect when Hughes approached him at the party.  
  
"Caffrey," he said, voice dry, "you mind going out for some fresh air?"  
  
The evening was cool enough that the terrace was mostly unused, but Neal shrugged, making himself look as loose and unconcerned as possible. "Sure." Peter caught Neal's eye as he followed Hughes out the door, but Peter didn't look worried so Neal tried not to think about worst case scenarios. Hughes walked across the terrace to lean against the balustrade, and Neal did the same.  
  
Hughes looked at Neal consideringly for a moment. "Are you ready to come back to work?"  
  
"Yes, sir."  
  
"You look fairly well, even if that suit is borderline ridiculous."  
  
Neal suppressed a smirk; he'd worn one of Byron's more ostentatiously vintage suits. The party was for him, after all, and he knew it would make June smile to see the old style back in action. "Thank you for making the deal that got me back here."  
  
Hughes shook his head. "You can thank me by giving a _very complete_ statement to us regarding your past criminal activity. The more stolen goods we can recover, the better our department will look. And if you leave something out and we find the evidence later? I won't feel at all guilty about putting you back in prison. You understand?"  
  
"Yes sir, I do." Oddly enough, Neal was looking forward to the opportunity to be honest with Peter. Short of any details that would incriminate Mozzie or Alex, Neal didn't intend to leave anything out.  
  
Hughes nodded then looked out past the terrace into the city for a long moment. "I want you to know, Caffrey, that I wasn't happy when I got back and found out what had happened."  
  
"I'm sorry."  
  
"No." Hughes held up one long-fingered hand. "I wasn't happy with what Kramer had done. You did good work for us here."  
  
Neal didn't know what to say, but he felt a surprising sort of pride pushing around inside his chest.  
  
"We sure as hell could've lived without some of the drama, but what happened wasn't right. If I had been here, it wouldn't have gone down the same way, I can tell you that."  
  
Neal couldn't help wondering if that was actually true, but there was no way to prove or disprove the hypothetical. "Then I hope you don't mind me saying that I wish you'd been there."  
  
Hughes looked sideways at Neal then smiled wryly. "Me too." He didn't volunteer anything about where he'd been, and Neal didn't ask. Hughes patted Neal on the shoulder and walked back inside.  
  
Neal turned and looked out at the night, and he wasn't surprised when he heard footsteps and Peter came to lean against the balustrade with his shoulder nudged in next to Neal's. "Everything okay?"  
  
"Better than okay." Neal leaned more heavily against Peter's arm. "Better than okay."  
  
~~~  
  
By the time he got home with Peter and El, Neal was pleasantly exhausted and just a little bit drunk from the glass and a half of champagne he shouldn't have had. He volunteered to take Satchmo out for one last trip before bedtime and walked out to stand in the middle of the tiny yard, staring up at the hazy-bright night sky.  
  
The night was cool enough to make Neal glad to have his jacket, but it wasn't the biting cold of winter. The night had the kind of soft-edged chill that said summer was on its way. And next summer, in not much more than a year, Neal would be done with his sentence. He would be off the anklet and free, both of his radius and of the weight of his past crimes. He could have a life with Peter and El, and nobody outside of the three of them could take it away. The promise of that freedom and that life was more tempting than any shiny object that had drawn his eye in the past.  
  
This was his final score, and amazingly enough he hadn't even had to steal it.  
  


**Author's Note:**

> This story has timestamps [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2166360/chapters/4737447) and [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2166360/chapters/4737456), along with the one posted here as a sequel.


End file.
